w 


Se eee 














FALLEN PRIDE: 


OR, 


THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 


BY 


MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 


AUTHOR OF “MIRIAM, THE AVENGER; OR, THE MISSING BRIDE,” “A BEAUTIFUL FIEND,” 
“HOW HE WON HER,” “RETRIBUTION,” “CHANGED BRIDES,” “ TRIED FOR HER LIFE,” 
““BRIDE’S FATE,” “ WIDOW’S SON,” “‘A NOBLE LORD,” ‘CRUEL AS THE GRAVE,” 

“ FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,’’ “ LOST HEIRESS,” “‘ FAMILY DOOM,” 
“THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “LADY OF THE ISLE,” ““HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” 
“CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “ VICTOR’S TRIUMPH,” “‘ GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” 

‘‘THE SPECTRE LOVER,” “ MAIDEN WIDOW,” “TWO SISTERS,’’ 

“BRIDAL EVE,” ‘FAIR PLAY,” ‘‘THE FATAL MARRIAGE,” 

‘* PRINCE OF DARKNESS,’’ ‘‘ BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,” 

‘ MOTHER-IN-LAW,” ‘“‘ DESERTED WIFE,” “INDIA,” 

** DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” ‘‘ WIFE’S VICTORY,” 

‘STOVE’S LABOR WON,” “THREE BEAUTIES,” 

“THE CHRISTMAS GUEST,” ‘‘ VIVIA,” 

“LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW,” ETO. 


ROA RRS Om AN 
“*Fallen Pride; or, The Mountain Girl’s Love, is one of the best, if not the best and 
most absorbing story ever writien by Mrs. Southworth, the Queen of American novelists, 
It abounds in thrilling incidents, increases in interest at every step, and culminates in a 
powerful and startling manner. We thus call the attention of our readers to tt, knowing 
that if they once enter upon its perusal, they will endorse every word we have said in its 
praise.”—Saturpay Nicur. 


PDP LLB OOOO OPPOPPPPWVPPP_APoPPPPPPPPPPPP PPP 


PHILADELPHIA: 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
DAVIS & ELVERSON, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS, 


Each Work is complete in one large Duodecimo Volume, 


MIRIAM, THE AVENGER; or, THE MISSING BRIDE. 
VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to ‘‘A Beautiful Fiend.” 
A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 
FAIR PLAY; OR, THE TEST CF THE LONE ISLE. 
HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to * Fair Play.” 
THE FATAL MARRIAGE, 
THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW. 
THE ARTIST’S LOVE, 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE. 
THE CHANGED BRIDES. 
THE BRIDE’S FATE. A Sequel to ‘‘The Changed Brides.” 
TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to ‘* Cruel us the Grave.’? 
THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 
THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY. 
THE FORTUNE SEEKER, 
THE LOST HEIRESS. 
THE CHRISTMAS GUEST. 
THE THREE BEAUTIES. 
THE WIDOW’S SON. 
THE BRIDAL EVE. 
A NOBLE LORD. Scquel to ‘The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 
THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to ‘The Family Doom.” 
THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD, 
LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
LADY OF THE ISLE. 
THE WIFE'S VICTORY. 
LHE DESERTED WIFE. 
ALLWORITH ABBEY. 
FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 
INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER, 
VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER, 
THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 
THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. 
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS. 
THE TWO SISTERS. 
THE SPECTRE LOVER. RETRIBUTION. 


Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.50 Each. 





Above books are for sale by ull Booksellers. Copies of any one or all 
of the above books, will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, 
on receipt of their price by the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON §& BROTHERS, 
306 CuEstNuT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, Pa. 


| 2 
meh, | A 
> nd 4 e 
2° 4 
CONTENTS 
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rn ————_—__+ so > ___—__ 
6HAPTER PAGB 
DR RMMGUNTAIN: HUT.. cc. csc cocacccceensedecasce AT 
2 PeRPeLON CAND THE ‘HEAUTIES: 5 \55 aincces veavcetcXeee AZ 
5 Piteew ee! CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN...ccccncecucsccess, O4 


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\ 9 Veuthh GUD MAN AND HIS BRIDES... nces cess secs aces 


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Wels TILE RUPTURED PLSRIRU en geet eet de Se, 146i Bio wheter eis erGrehota eae a a 84 
DPUMEMMEROVERED HEARTS 22.06 look clade ok ee dace s LU2 


Pr TEPC RCTION o's o/s csc cee cceecacceswechrvcatper LAD 


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p¥ 87 Trorrclhl 


SPAM MO BEIDE, «yo ccisaleee boslawss sebve (tes dertisvees 142 
SE CTEM TES gio, RUT rg eG nisin's Cake ds bie « wale ke Seca LOO 
RieMee WAIRFAR “AND MAJOR CABELL... oes 0ceecrsnccee LOL 
Raat ors ac oo ale bis cotale wie vines Wise dF ’wia 44) Some LOG 
eitT OAROUER CLIFTON S SKETCHES 5 isse cess seveseuwevaetLiG 


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wiv.0 THe DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION ¢.....vcecscececvcsce LO 


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eter oOLARTON.S, RESOLUTION «soc sc caccclecculeavess cece 200 
SeeretMm WIDOWED BRIDE... cs kee peescewaesapaee 200 


PPA VOUNG (MOUBNER. .oos'ccsesevcce qeneeradiupen Me 


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(15) 


16 


CHAPTER 
XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
<rv. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 
XXVIII. 
<xrIx, 
rey. 
Seri. 
<x 3x11. 
XXXII. 
XXXIV. 
XxXV; 
XXXVI. 


XXXVII. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 
LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES .... ose soccs ewe mane e ane 
ZOLBIME 26 ses cons esc nc on ce ain sll o's ole aaenne enn 
THE. Oe TFASTROPHE. . 6 coda cc'ccesc) os nena 
‘CIN PALACK CHAMBERS.”... ase ocx suis HiemaneS enn 
GEORGIA. is.0- secs ccuc's ee .sas6 Vw atlp cree ieee 
CATHERINE ., viscces ces can cccevedes soe 
WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM..cceccecccssenes OLD 
THE RETURN. cs 00 cece oven ss wdals te oioareteinneeeee 
BETROTHAL... « au 0c. 4 0 peise a's were oles ian entails enn 
THE POISON WORKS 2 040 esas +00 0.s» 5 uid ose einen 
DEDICATION. 25 5 00 emcee 50s 0. as sic pialeieie is eiateleite tenn 
‘‘pHE MEEKNESS OF LOVE:’’. sds 0 oe =< «s selene 
CATHERINE’S REGENCY....000¢5 00405 0000 apni anne 
CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. (ccc caccecce cess scene 
THE NIGHT. JOURNEY... ,cc0cveeccos esc gene 


THE GOAL. occscecccscs adoe pueclen es 00.6 « cee 436 


KXXVIII. CONCLUSION .<ccesccce tone sceuceen du muna uel 


FALLEN PRIDE. 


CHAPTER I) . 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT 


A lonesome lodge 
That stands so lowe in lonely gien, 
The little windowe, dim and darke,- 
Is hung with ivy, brier and yewe. 
Percy’s RELIQUES 


Upon a glorious morning, in the midsummer of 18—, twe 
equestrian travellers spurred their horses up the ascent of 
the Hagle’s Flight, the loftiest and most perilous pass of the 
Alleghanies. 

Though the sun was near the meridian, and all the sky 
above was ‘ darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,” and perfectly 
clear, yet all the carth beneath was covered by a thick, low- 
lying fog. 

On reaching the highest point of the pass, both travellers 
drew rein and paused, looking—North, South, East, West— 
over the ocean of vapor rolling from horizon to horizon below 
them! And while they so pause, let us catch that nearly ver- 
tical ray of the sun that falls upon them, lighting up the group 
like fire above the fog, and daguerreotype them as they stand. 

Both are young men of about the same age, probably 
twenty-five; both are well mounted upon fine bay horses 
and both wear the undress uniform of the ———— Regiment 
of Cavalry ; and here all resemblance between them ceases. 

He on the right hand, who holds in his horse’s head with 
so tight a rein, causing the gallant steed to arch his beautiful 


peck £0 eracefully, while be lets fly a falcon-glance around 
(LT) 


18 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 


the shrouded horizon, is Archer Clifton, of Clifton, now huld 
ing the rank of Captain in the ———— Regiment of Cavalry. 
liis form is of middle size, strongly built, yet elegantly pro- 
portioned. His conplexion is dark and bronzed as by ex- 
posure; his features are Roman; his hair and whiskers 
trunly cut, are of the darkest chestnut, with what painters 
call cool lights, which is to say, that there is no warmth of 

esJoring even where the sun lights. Indeed, there is no 
warmth about the looks of the whole man. His eyes are 
singularly beautiful and brilliant, combining all those dark, 
shifting, scintillating, prismatic hues, that would drive an 
artist mad, for want of colors to portray, or an author to 
despair, for lack of words to describe. He wears the dark 
blue uniform of his regiment, and manages his noble charger 
with the ease and grace only to be found in the accomplished 
cavalry officer. 

He upon the left hand, who, with languid air and loosened 
rein, inclines his body form ard, permitting his graceful horse 
to droop his head and scent the earth, as in quest of herbage, 
is Francis Fairfax, of Green Plains, a Lieutenant in the com- 
pany under the command of Captain Clifton: He is of about 
the same height of Clifton, but his figure is slender almost to 
fragility. His features are delicate and piquant. His com- 
plexion is fair and transparent. His hair is also very fair, 
and waves off from a forehead so snowy, round and smooth, 
as to seem child-like, especially with those clear blue eyes, 
that now brood roguishly under their golden lashes, as in 
profound quest of mischief, and now light up and sparkle with 
fun and frolic. He missmanages his spoiled pet of a steed 
with the charming insouctance, only to be seen in the amateur 
poet, painter, play er, musician, etc., etc., etc. And yet 
there is sometimes an earnest, thoughtful aspect about the 
-youth, that surprises one into the suspicion that all his levity 
is superficial, and hides his deeper and better nature, as stub- 
ble sometimes covers and conceals a mine of precious metal. 

*« Well!” at last spoke Mr. Fairfax, “it is now about 
twelve hours since we were eniptied out of that atrocious old 
etage coach, which, for a week past, has been beating us 
about in its interior, from side to side, and froin seat to ceil- 
ing. as if we were a lump of butter in an old woman’s churn, 
end whose kindest turn of all to us was, when it turned ove: 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 19 


and shook us out down the precipice, and intc the trough of 
the Wolf’s Lick, as if we had been apples fed to the pigs 

Oh! by the lost baronetcy of the house of Fairfax, my self: 
esteem will never recover the effects of it! Perdition seize 
the picturesque at this price! And ever since long before 
daybreak this morning, have we been wandering about over 
these mountain tops, with the earth below us hidden in mist 
and only the highest peaks looming through the sea of vaper 
like islands in the ocean! And we plungin, Wildly about in 
the fog, like death on the pale horse riding the waves! And 
to the momentarily recurring risk of riding over some hidden 
precipice of a thousand feet perpendicular. If this be 
your glorious mountain scenery, to the demon with it! 
For I had as lief be on the open sea with the ‘ Ancient 
Mariner!’ ” 

To this half petulant, half laughing philipie Captain Clif 
ton, while his glance still roved over the shrouded hemis- 
phere, replied, with an indulgent smile— 

‘* You cannof see the face of the country for the morning 
veil she chooses to wear. But wait till high noon, when the 
sun, her royal lover, in the meridian of his glory, shall raise 
that gauzy covering, and she, like a right royal bride, shall 
smile and blush in light and glory.” 

“ By my soul, [ could fancy the lady earth wore this veil 
to conceal fast gathering tears, rather than smiles or blushes! 
Anglicé, I think we shall have rain soon—though blistered 
be my tongue for saying it!—not about the rain Lut about 
the veil!’ For, look you! Fret as I may at this journey 
through the mist—yet this fine scenery, under a cloud as it 
literally zs, gives me a feeling of breadth, grandeur! I ex 
pand, spread out over the vast area of its shrouded solitudes 
Oh! it is only on the boundless sea or on the mountain top, 
with a hemisphere below me, that I feel as if I had room 
enough to live in! And you give me a feeling of suffocation 
by drawing in this awful shrouded world to the simile of a 
lady’s veiled face! But it is not to be wondered at! No, 
by the shade of Mare Antony, and all other great men, who 
beld the whole world light in the balance with a woman’s 
evanescent smile or tear! everything is apropos du femmes 

with you now. Could the musie of the spheres suddenly 
surst upon your astonished ears, as soon as you had recovered 


20 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 


your senses, your highest note of admiration would be te 
compare that universal diapason of divine harmony to Lady 
Carolyn’s silver laugh !” 

“1 do not recollect ever to have heard ‘ Lady’ Carolyn 
laugh.” 

© T'ex thousand pardons! <A Clifton of Clifton never 
laughs. But tell me, Captain, whereabouts in the world-~ 
I incan in the clouds, ave we? And when shall we see this 
pure pearl of beauty and the rich casket that enshrines her , 
this stately lily of the mountains and the parterre where she 
blooms ;—when shall we behold Paradise and the Peri— 
Clifton and Lady Carolyn ?” 

Without replying to this mock-poetic strain, Captain Clifton 
remained with his eyes still wandering from East to West, 
and back again over the rolling vapor. And Fairfax con- 
tinucd— . 

“T suspect now, by your abstracted air md wandering 
eye, that you have lost your way in the clouds—not the first 
time such a thing has happened to a lover, nor would it be 
strange in a place like this, where the only land-marks are 
mountain tops sticking out of the fog with a day’s journey 
between each !” 

At this instant a distant group of peaks broke suddenly 
through the mist like new isles thrown up by the sea, and 
glittered whitely in the sunlight against the deep blue 
Lorizon. 

“See!” exclaimed Clifton, roused from his apathy by the 
sudden apparition. * Look, Fairfax! I will show you White 
Cliffs! Look straight before you to the Western horizon— 
a little North of West. You see a crescent of seven peaks 
rising through the mist against the sky. That is White 
Cliffs.” 

“ Looking white enough at this distance—quite ‘ike snows 
capped mountains, in fact.” 

“Yes. They are of white quartz, and their peaks rising 
from the girdle of dark evergreens around their base and 
sides, have quite a cooling effect in hot weather.” 

“Ah! just so. Now how far off are those same blesscd 
refrigerators ?” 

« About twenty-five miles in a bee-line. But the moun- 
tain road is very circuitous, and makes the distance nearly 


a 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 2) 


forty. However, if we ride well, we shall be able to reach 
Clifton in time to surprise Mrs. Clifton at tea.” 

‘‘Heaven be praised for that possibility!” ejaculated 
Fairfax, as they prepared to descend the mountair 
side. 

As they rode dowa, Captain Clifton, warming slightly from 
his cool reserve, said— 

“J think, Fairfax, that you, poet and artist as you claim: 
to be, will rather like Clifton. Tourists, who have visited 
our part of the country, think the scenery there very finc. 
It impresses me merely as being unique. There is something 
formal—but, to myself, not therefore unpleasing in that 
crescent of seven peaks—the tallest being in the centre and 
gradually declining thence to the lowest, which may be called 
the horns of the crescent, and point Southward. These 
peaks rise from a forest of—first elms and oaks around their 
base ; then pines farther up their sides; and last of cedars, 
above which rise the pinnacle of white quartz. This crescent 
of mountains surrounds and shelters from the North winds 
the family mansion, which is situated in the woods at its foot. 
North of the peaks, the country is wild and rugged, but 
partly covered with thick forest, and affording the best hunt- 
ing grounds in the world.. There you may course the hare; 
track the deer; or if your tastes aspire to a fiercer conflict, 
hunt the wolf, the wild cat, or the bear—!” 

«¢ Or the rattle-snake, copper-head, or moceasin! Thank 
you, I have no inclination for crusade against those moun- 
taineers,” laughed Fairfax. 

‘¢ Perhaps you like angling? There is a trout stream at 
the foot of the wooded lawn, in front of the house. I must 
tell you about that, for it is the head waters of a fine 
river. 

«From the Western cliff there springs a torrent that with 
_ many a leap, and fall, and rebound, tumbles ‘tumultuously 
down the side of the mountain, and falling into.a channel at 
the foot of the lawn flows calmly on, until it meets a second 
fall, from whence it goes hurrying on, through forests, fields 
and rocks, taking tribute from many a mountain-torrent, and 
many a meadow-stream, and widening as it goes, until it bes 
comes a mighty river, rushing on, to pour its floods into the 
majestic James. After which, they both go on, breaking 


22 THE MOUNTAIN HUT 


through range after range of mountains, and so conquer theit 
passage to the sea—even as in the feudal days of the olden 
country, sonie mountain chieftain, gathering his vassals to- 
gether, came rushing down from his highland home, and 
laying all the country under tribute in his course, hurried or 
to throw all his treasures at the feet of his sovereign, and go 
with hii to the wars.” 

‘‘ Clifton!” said Fairfax, more seriously than he had yet 
spoken, ‘all your illustrations—all your metaphors—all 
your thoughts, fancies and imaginings are—not ‘ of the earth, 
earthy,’ but worse—far worse—of the world, worldly! Of 
the world, its castes, customs and conventions—its pomps, 
vanities and falsities! You speak of the grandest, the most 
imposing—oh ! let me call it at. once, the most magnificent 
areca of mountain-scenery in the hemisphere, with all the 
earth, below and around, covered with a sea of vapor that 
rises and falls, rolling from horizon to horizon, like the waves 
of the ocean, and you compare it to a veiled royal bride! 
You describe a mighty mountain-river, rending its passage 
through the everijasting rocks, overleaping, uprooting, bear- 
ing down and bearing on all obstacles to its resistless rush 
towards the sea, and you liken it to a chieftain gomg to pay 
tribute to a King! Ah, Clifton of Clifton, the beauty, the 
glory, and the majesty of the earth pleases you, but the 
‘pomp, pride, and circumstance’ of the world inspires you! 
But when was it otherwise with a Clifton, of Clifton? ‘The 
spirit of intense worldliness has ever beeen their bane and 
curse—their sin and its punishment!” he concluded, ro- 
lapsing into his mock-tragie air. 

«“ Ah! so you are familiar with the popular legend that 
you have just quoted,” said Captain Clifton. * But,” he 
added, with a sarcastic smile, ‘‘ were Georzia here, I think 
she could refute the charge, and prove one Clifton, at least, 
has been guided by any spirit rather than that of ‘intense 
worldliness.’ ”” 

“ Georgia?” 

‘©T beg her pardon! Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton.” 

“Oh! your aunt! but by my soul, Waptaie, that was a 
very irreverent way of introducing the “old lady! Do young 
sen in your patriarchal part of the country call old gentle 
women by their (hristian names ?” 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 23 


‘Old gentlewomen!” repeated Clifton slowly, witg 
inusing smile, adding—‘‘ Georgia is about seventeen years 
of age, and the most beautiful woman in the world !” 

“ Whe-e-e-ew! Tm amazed! Tm confounded! [’m 
stunned! Then—the present Mrs. Clifton is the second wife ?”’ 

«© No, sir—Georgia is my uncle’s fourth wife.” 

“ Overwhelmed !—annihilated!”? exclaimed the young man. 
‘ The—the—old Blue-beard! the old Henry VIII.! Four 
wives! Are they all living ?—if not, where does he bury his 
dead ?” 

“ Fairfax!” exclaimed Captain Clifton, in a tone, and 

with a look, that speedily recalled the young man to himself 
-—then he added, rather haughtily— My Uncle Clifton is a 
simple, gentle-hearted old man, excessively fond of women, 
but mark you, sir!—it is the affection of the patriarch, not 
of the pacha.” 
_ Hang me if ever I saw any difference between Solomon 
the king, and Solimaun the caliph; Abraham the patriarch, 
and Aroun the pacha, in that respect,” laughed the young 
man, until, stealing a furtive glance at the cold and haughty 
face of Clifton, he held out his hand, and suddenly exclaimed 
—‘ Pardon me, Clifton! or call me out! I—can’t help a 
jest, to save my soul! but Pll fight or apologize, or render 
any other sort of satisfaction afterwards !” 

Captain Clifton remembered that Francis Fairfax was his 
guest, going to spend a long mid-summer furlough at his 
mother’s house, and so he cleared his brow and answered— 

«¢ Nonsense !” , 

“< Now tell me about Henry VIII.’s fourth Queen—how 
long has she been married—I mean the present Mrs. Clifton ?”’ 

“¢ About two years. My uncle wedded her when she was 
fifteen—she is now seventeen—and, as I said, the most beau- 
tiful creature that you, or I, or any one else, ever did, or 
ever shall see, anywhere.” 

“ Allons—stop there! False knight and recreant! whose 
colors do you wear while you uphold the peerless beauty of 
Georgia? What would Miss Clifton of Clifton say to your 
admiration 2?” 

* tidiculous, sir! Miss Clifton is herself very beautiful, 
but not the most beautiful. Miss Clifton has other and 
‘arer distinc*ions, I am proud to say ?”” 


24 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 


“Oh, I understand—her family name !—neverthcless, be 
nanged if I don’t believe you have been in love witk 
Georgia !” 

‘‘ Impossible, sir! The perfect beauty of the young girl 
struck ive forcibly, as it strikes all others—nay, more—im- 
pressed my imagination deeply perhaps. JI confess to a 
penchant for female beauty—and—observe—it is the artist’s 
taste, sir, not the sultan’s. But in love with Georgia! Im- 
possible, sir! She was a girl of humble parentage !” 

“Ah! then you think it quite ‘impossible’ that a gentle- 
wan born, should be in love with a girl of ‘humble parent- 
age ? > 

‘“‘ Preposterous, sir !—utterly preposterous! Pray, let us 
hear no more about it!” 

‘Yet your uncle—” 

‘‘My uncle married such an one, you would say. Old 
gentlemen, living on their own estates, will do such things. 
And the world charitably ascribes it to dotage, smiles and 
forgives them. You will oblige me by changing the subject, 
Frank.” 

Fairfax fell into reverie, and Clifton dropped into thought, 
and they rode on for some time in silence, and in—joy— 
until— 

“ Floods and furies! Fire and flames!! Lightning and 
tempests, and sudden death!!!” exclaimed Fairfax, rearing 
and backing his horse with a.terrible jerk, and throwing him- 
self from the saddle, bathed in perspiration, and shaking with 
terror. ‘Look! Look there! There at your feet! Back! 
Back your horse, unless you wish to ride straight to the 
kingdom of Heaven, or—to the other place! Oh, blessed 
Lord! I shall never survive the shock!” 

Captain Clifton backed his horse, dismounted, and follow- 
ing the index of Fairfax, approached the brink of the awful 
abyss, and looked down a perpendicular precipice of more 
than a thousand feet, with the remaining distance lost in 
shadows and dim vapors, while faintly to the ear came a low 
and hollow murmur, as of the roaring of many waters at a 
vast depth ! 

«‘ This is the head of the Devil’s Staircase! We have lost 
our way '” said Captain Clifton. 

* Devil’s Staircase! I slould think it was! Ugh' Oo 


THE MOUNTAIN HU1. 25 


oo-00-ooh ! I shall never survive it! Where does it lead to? 
Tell me that! ‘To the infernal regions, I suppose, of course. 
Ur-r-r-r-r !” exclaimed Faiitax, with his teeth chattering. 

‘¢ We have indeed made a very narrow escape,” said Cap- 
tain Clifton, gazing thoughtfully down the horrible pit. 

“ Narrow escape! Ur-r-r-r-r !”’ exclaimed Frank, shaking, 
shuddering, and streaming with cold perspiration. ‘I tell 
you, when | was providentially led to look down, and saw the 
fog roll away from beneath my horse’s feet, and reveal that 
ghastly—Ur-r-r-r-r!_ Ur-r-r-r-r! I believe I shall chatter my 
teeth to powder !” 

«Come, come, Fairfax! this is really unmanly. Thank 
an ever-watchful Providence, that has preserved you from a 
sudden and horrible death, and calm ycurself. Be a 
man !” 

“Beaman! You might as well say to mw shuddering 
horse, there—be a horse! This is unhorsely! Ur-r-r-r-r. 
I tell you it has given me the tertian ague !” 

“Why, Frank! Really!” 

“‘ Look at my horse—look even at that dumb beast! Yes, 
look at that gallant steed, who would charge upon a phalanx 
of fixed bayonets, and impale himself upon ther points, if 
spurred to it—look at him! Positively frozen w*th terror !” 

“‘ Fairfax, you astonish me—certainly you are not really 
so much overcome.” 

«‘Qvercome! My nerves are shattered to atems, I tell 
you! Ur-r-r-r-r! It has given me the tertian *guc, and 
the St. Vitus’ dance! both together!. Ur-r-r-r-r !” 

“¢ Now who would have supposed you to be a—of such a 
nervous temperament! Come, let me assist you te mount, 
and then away.” 

‘What! And at the end of the next hundred yar4s, ride 
headlong over a precipice of fifteen hundred feet, and hefore 
night find sepulchre in the maws of fifty turkey-buzzards! ] 
tell you there is neither a glorious death, an honorable b»rial 
nor an immortal fame to be found in such a fate!) Hea~ens 
and earth, no! For instance—* Whatever bceame of *hat 
poor devil, Fairfax ? asks one. ‘Oh, one day, crossing the 
mountains in a fog, with his head in a mist, he had the awk- 
wardness to pitch himself headforemost down the Dev-'’s 
Ladder, in the Alieghanies,’ answers t’other. ‘ Poor cre» 


26 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 


fue! He was always a miserable—but where was he buried ? 
‘ fle wa’n’t buried—the crows eat hin up,’ etc., ete., ete. } 
Oh! I know what my posthumous fame would be in such a- 
case. Quite different from that of the future Major-Genera, 
Francis Fairfax, who, fifty years hence, at a good old age, 
shall die in his downy bed, with the archbishop praying by 
him, and be buried with the highest honors of war, and have 
a national monument raised to hie fame, emblazoning his iin 
mortal services to his grateful country, in receiving her 
honors and emoluments for more that half a century! Can’t 
give up that glorious future for the sake of dashing myself 
to pieces this afternoon, Clifton. No!” said the young man, 
folding his arms, and striking an attitude a-la-Napoleon, 
‘*¢] have a destiny to fulfill, and shall not stir from this spot 
until the mist rises or falls.” 

‘< Mr. Fairfax! it is now drawing late in the afternoon. We 
shall have a storm before night; and a storm on the moun- 
tains, let me tell you, is a much more delightful thing to read 
about in Childe Harold, while stretched at your ease upon 
the settee in your shady piazza, than to take in pro- 
pria persone on the Alleghanies,” said Captain Clifton, 
quietly. 

‘¢Only warrant me from bringing up suddenly to the 
jumping-off place before I know it—and Ill make an at- 
tempt! Yea let him only insure my body unharmed by 
fire or water, and [ll valiantly follow my leader through 
flood and flame!” replied Frank, recovering himself with a 
few more shudders, and preparing to mount. 

s¢ We have left the right road about two miles behind,” 
said Captain Clifton, turning his horse’s head and leading 
the way. 

The fog below was condensing very fast. From the North- 
Western horizon black clouds were rising behind masses of 
foaming white vapor. The air was still and oppressive, and 
from all around came a faint, low moaning sound, as if na- 
ture cowered and trembled before the coming of the terrible 
‘storm king.” The fog was now rolling down and gathers 
ing into clouds below them—revealing the majestic features 
of the landscape, mountains, vales and forests, rocks, glens 
and waterfalls, in wild and magnificent confusion-—all wear- 
ing now a savage and gloomy aspect under the shadow of 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 27 


the coming storm. Captain Clifton’s eye had been con- 
stantly on the alert in hope of discovering some mountain 
cabin, which might shelter them from the fury of the tem- 
pest, but as yet his search was unsuccessful--no human 
dwelling even of the humblest description was to be seen. 
At length the attention of the travellers was attracted by 
the faint tingling of a bell—then by the bleating of sheep— 
and then from the deep clouded glen at their right, sprung 
- up into their path a bell-wether followed by two—five—ten— 
a whole flock of sheep; and driven by a girl on a pony; 
a little coarse, sun-burned girl, in a boy’s coarse straw hat 
and a homespun gown, riding on a little reugh-coated, wiry, 
mountain pony. 

«¢ A shepherdess, by all that is romantic,” Balan Fair- 
fax, vaulting aside to let the sheep pass. Then springing to 
the side of the rough-coated pony, he doffed his hat to the 
rider and said— 

“My good girl—for the love of Providence, will you tell 
us where we can find shelter from the storm ?” 

The child raised her fine eyes to the stranger’s face with 
the look of a startled fawn—and dropped them again in- . 
stantly. Fairfax repeated his question. The child stole 
another furtive glance at the fine gentleman in the very fine 
uniform, and then at her own coarse raiment, and blushed 
deeply. But before Fairfax could reiterate his request, she 
said, quietly — 

“ Grandfather’s cabin is not far off, if you and the other 
gentleman will come with me.” 

* With great pleasure—and ten thousand thanks, my dear 
little girl. Be so good as to lead the way.’ 

The flock of sheep had gone on before. The girl put her 
pony in motion, and the gentlemen followed—Mr. Fairfax 
addressing all his conversation to his little companion; and 
Captain Clifton riding on in silence and abstraction. 

The sky was darkening very fast, and great single drops 
of rain occasionally falling. They quickened their pace, and 
after riding briskly several hundred yards, caine to the head 
cf a glen, deep down in which was seen a small, lone. cabin. 
At this instant the sheet lightning glared from horizon te 
horizon, followed by a report as of exploded and falling 
_. socks, and then the «ain came down in adeluge. ‘I'he dark- 


28 1HE MOUNTAIN HOT. 


ness was so dense now as to hide their way. The girl jumped 
from her pony, and giving him a little slap that sent him 
travelling down the path, went up to the head of Clifton’s 
horse and said, shyly— 

«You can’t see the way, sir, and you don’t know the 
road—let me lead your horse.” 

«By no means, my good girl,” replied Clifton, speaking 
in a tone of haughty astonishment. 

Without reply the child turned from him and went to- 
wards Fairfax. And at the same instant a thunder-bolt wag 
hurled from Heaven with a terrific crash, riving the ground 
on which she had just stood. When the panic was over, the 
first thought of Captain Clifton was for the safety of that 
presumptuous child. A glare of lightning revealed her 
lying on the rock. He hastened to her side. 

‘‘My dear child, are you hurt,” he asked, dismounting 
and stooping to lift her. 

«Oh! sir, I am so glad to hear you speak! I thought 
you were struck.” 

« Are you hurt ?” 

“Oh no, sir, I was only thrown down,” replied the child, 
lightly springing to her feet. 

“Oh, yes! Exchange your mutual condolences and con- 
gratulations. But who the mischief cares whether I am 
hurt or not?’ exclaimed Fairfax, stumbling along towards 
them—for he also had dismounted. 

«You were entirely out of danger,” replied Clifton. 

‘Out of danger! Who the deuce is out of danger within 
a hundred miles of these infernal mountains?” 

The rain was still pouring down in floods, and in the inter- 
val of the thunder, the roar of the swollen torrents was 
deafening. The question now was, whether to remain stand- 
ing there exposed to all the fury »f the storm, or to attempt 
the now dangerous descent into the glen. 

“I could lead your horses down in safety, if you wou!d 
let me, for I know every inch of the road so well,” said the 

irl. 
; Another blinding glare of lightning, another terrific peal 
of thunder, and another deluge of rain, put a stop to all ree 
ply. At last the child repeated her offer, saying that she 
could lead the borses down very well, “on2 at a time.” But, 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 29 


of course, that was not for a moment to be thought of by 
the young wen. And her plan was rejected at once. 

«Well, then, the only way will be to go down on toot, 
and leave your horses here to follow. For you will need 
your hands as well as your feet in groping down the slippery 
ro:k through the darkness,” said the girl. 

After alittle more consultation, her last proposition was 
ailopted, and they began the descent on foot. 

After some twenty minutes’ toil and struggle through 
darkness and deluge, thunder and lightning, they reached 
the lowly door of the cabin, pushed it hastily open, and hur- 
ried in. 

It was very dark, and nothing was to be seen but the red 
glow of a few smouldering embers on the hearth. Towards 
these the girl went. 

‘¢ And what do you think has become of your flock of 
sheep, my good girl ?” inquired Frank, kindly, remembering 
her interests while he stood there wringing the water out of 
his coat skirts. 

‘«¢ Oh, the bell-wether has led them all into the pen long 
ago, sir. ‘They are always safe when they are once in the 
glen,” replied the child, as she lighted a candle. 

‘The sudden glare of the light showed a rude apartment, 
with an earth floor, log walls,and a fire-place of unhewn stone. 
Op the right of the fire-place stood a poor bedstead, upon 
which lay a venerable, white-haired old man, covered with a 
faded counterpane, and near the bed sat an old, chip-bot- 
vumed arm-chair. On the left of the fire-place were two 
rough plank shelves, the lower shelf adorned with a few 
pewter plates and mugs; the upper one filled with 
books !—piles of old dingy, musty books ; and near these 
shelves stood a spinning-wheel, with a broach of yarn on the 
spindle, and a basket of broaches under it. At the opposite 
end of the room, one corner was occupied by a little old oak 
table, and the other by a ladder leading up through a trap- 
door into the loftoverhead. <A few rude stools were ranged 
aloug the walls, junks of smoked venison, ropes of onions, 
punches of dried herbs, hanks of yarn, and the old man’s oid 
hat and coat garnished the walls. All this was seen ata 
gleuce. 

‘Is your grandfather sick ?”’ inquired Frank. 





30 THE MOUNTAIN HAUT. 


The girl turned her eyes wistfully towards the venerable 
sleeper, and did not reply. 

‘Ts your grandfather sick ?’ repeated Fairfax. 

The child raised her eyes sorrowfully to the face of the 
young man, and remained silent. 

“Is he so very sick ?”’ earnestly reiterated Frank. 

“Tfe is not sick, sir,’ answered the girl, in a low, 3ad 
voice. 

“What is the matter with him, then?’ thoughtlessly per- 
sisted Irank. 

Without reply, the girl dropped her eyes, and blushing 
deeply, turned away. Setting the candle down upon the 
table, she took a pail of water and went up the ladder, and 
into the loft. After an absence of a few minutes, she re- 
turned, and said— 

“If you will go up stairs now, you will find two suits of 
grandfather’s and Carl’s Sunday clothes. They are not fine, 
but they are clean and dry.” 

Our wet and jaded travellers thanked their young hostess, 
and prepared to accept her offer. 

“And if,” she added, ‘‘ you would like to rest after so 
much fatigue, there is a bed.” 

They reached the loft, and found it a small, low place, 
with a little window, and a little, clean bed. On ihe bed 
lay the two suits of homespun, and two coarse towels. And 
on a stool near, sat a pail of water and a tin basin. 

‘¢I do believe that little girl has given us her own sanc- 
tuary. What a dear little thing she is!—so full of courage, 
and shyness, too! If she were two or three years older, and 
a great deal prettier, 1 could fancy myself writing poetry 
about her,’”’ said Frank. 

Clifton made no comment—he was engaged in divesting 
himself of his wet garments, and thinking about-—Miss 
Clifton. 

When they had refreshed themseives by washing aud 
changing their dress, Frank threw himself upon the bed, 
stretched out his limbs luxuriously, and declared that the 
rustic’s clothes were very loose and comfortable, and his own 
position truly delightful. Captain Clifton walked to the 
window, and looked out at the storm, whith was new 
abating. 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 3) 


¢zank was already sound asleep. 

And wove Ulitton stood at the window, drawing compa- 
rans betwweeu the meanness of the hut in which he found 
himself, and the magnificence of the mountain scenery around 
it, ne heard—in that small, shell-like cabin—he could not 
help hearine—what follows. First a heave and plunge, as 
if the old man kelow stairs had started violently from his 
bed and fallen agat, and then a fearful, shuddering voice 
exclaimed, ‘ Kate! Kate! they’re coming again! 'They’re 
after me, Kate! They’re on me! They’re on me! Save 

me, Kate! Save me, Kate! Save—” 

“ Grandfather—dear grandfather,” said the soothing voice 
of the girl, “there is no one here but me—there, there, be 
quiet—be still; nothing shall uurt you here—nothing caa 
you know.” 

“Look! Look, Kate! Look! They’re not men now 
but devils!” A violent plunge, struggles, exclamations of 
terror and despair which the low, soothing tones and gestures 
of the poor girl vainly assayed to tranquillize for some time, 
and then—silence for a few minutes—which was again in- 
terrupted by—‘‘ Snakes! snakes, Kate! Snakes! Green 
snakes! See! see how they dart! They fly! They’re on 
me! They’re on me! Help! Help!” And the sound of the 
maniac laying about him furiously. Captain Clifton started 
up with the intention of going to the poor girl’s assistance— 
but by the time he reached the head of the ladder, the voice 
of the child had again calmed tke infuriated man. 

All was quiet for a quarter of an hour, and then another 
violent start and throw that seemed to shake the little hut. 
and a horrible shriek of—* A dragon! A dragon, Kate! A 
green dragon belching flame !” Then a succession of violent 
shrieks and struggles, which aroused Frank, who springing 
up in hed, exclaimed— 

6 What the deuce is the matter? Has the Mainr got 
another fit of mania-a-potu on him?’ Then, as all again 
was quiet, he rubbed his eyes and said, laughing. “1 do ‘he- 
lieve I have been talking in my sleep! I drearied we ware 
in our mess, and the Major was drunk again.” 

«A part of your dream was real. The old man belew 
stairs has a fit of m1ia-a-potu upon him. 


89° THE MOUNTAIN HUTT. 


«What! and you staying here! I must go down and 
help the girl.” 

“You had better not as yet. She seems to have the pow- 
er of soothing him. Your presence might, by exasperating 
him, do more Sharm than good.” 

At this moment another outbreak of fury from the mad- 
man caused Frank to spring to his feet, and, exclaiming— 

“T can’t let that maniac tear my dear little hostess to 
preces—” rush to the head of the ladder. 

“J tell you you had best not zntrude—his mania seems 
perfectly harmless to the child.” 

But Frank was at the foot of the ladder, where, however, 
an impediment met him. The girl, who had just succeeded 
in again soothing the madman, came and stood before him, 
saying, * Pray do not come in, sir, just yet.” 

“ But, my good girl, | must come in and remain to protect 
you,” gently trying to pass her. She stood her ground 
firmly ; her dips said— 

“Tam not in any danger. I beg you, sir, do not come in 
yet :”? but her steady and rather threatening glance said— 
«Jo not dare to look upon the old man in his Uegradation ! ss 

Frank turned back, and went and perched himself at the 
top of the ladder to watch over the safety of the girl, and 
be ready in case of exigency. 

IIe saw the old man lying, clutching the cover around him, 
while his terror-dilated eyes glared out like a wild beast’s 
from its lair—all ready for another start and spring! He 
saw the girl mix a mug of strong vinegar and water, and 
take it to him, and the old man grasp and quaff it with fiery 
thirst ; three times she filled the mug, and three times he 
wulphed its contents with voracity. Then she laid his aged 
head tenderly down, and went and saturated a cloth with 
vinegar, and placed it about his burning forehead and tem- 
ples. Next she took a rustic fan of turkey feathers and 
stood by him and fanned him until he fell into a sleep, that 
every moment became deeper and deeper. Finally she gently 
jaid down the fan, sunk upon her knees by the bedside, and 
bowed her head upon her clasped hands in silent prayer. 
At last she arose, pressed a light kiss upon the furrowed 
eo of the sleeper, and silently went about her household 
wor 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 1 | 


From a shed at the back of the house she brough. wood 
and water, made up the fire, filled and hung on the tea- 
kettle, set an oven and oven-lid to heat, and again disap- 
peared through the back door into the shed. In about 
fifteen minutes she returned with a tray of dough and a pan 
of venison steaks. She made her dough intoa loaf and put 
it in the oven to bake, and prepared her venison steaks to 
lay upon the coals. She set her table with milk and cream, 
and butter, brought in, doubtless from a rude, but cool 
spring-house, near at hand. 

When all was done, she sat down to knit, seeming to wait 
the coming of another—for she often paused and listened 
with her head turned towards the door, and at length got up 
and drew from under the bed a trunk, whence she tcok an 
old, well-patched but clean suit of homespun clothes, with a 
shirt and a pair of socks, and hung them over a chair. 

Soon after a step was heard without—the door was thrown 
open, and a thin, dark young man, dressed as a farm laborer, 
entered. Throwing his coarse hat to the other end of the 
room, he approached the fire, when seeing the situation of 
the old man he stopped short, and placing his arms a-kimbo, 
gazed on him, exclaiming— 

‘¢ Drunk again, by ————!” and then turned, with an 
interrogative look, towards the girl. 

A short: wave of the hand—a quick, distressful nod, and 
the choking down of a sob, told him that it was so. 

The young man let down his arms, and with a frown of 
mingled sorrow and anger approached and gazed upon the 
sleeper. 

‘«‘ Have you had much trouble with him, dear Kate ?” 

The same choking sob and quick nod answered him. 

““ Where pip he get the liquor? What has he laid his 
hands on and sold now—any of my books ?” 

“No! nc!—it was my bonnet—but never mind, I can 
wear your old hat, you know!—it doesn’t matter for me !” 

“Well, now, by all that’s—” 

s Hush, hush, Carl! Don’t swear—he is our grandfather, 
you know ; and besides,” she added, suddenly dropping ber 
Toice, there are strangers up stairs.’ 

‘Strangers! What strangers ?” 

«Two gentlemen whd came 2 in here out of the sto:m.” 


84 THE MOUATAIN UT. 


« Uinph !” said the young man, dropping himself into the 
arm-chai ', and falling into deep thought, es which he was 
aroused b,: the voice of Kate, saying— 

“ Carl, don’t sit down in your wet clothe ; take those on 
the chair, and go in the shed and put them on. And mako 
haste, please, Carl, because supper is nearly ready, and the 
gentlemen up stairs must be hungry.” 

The young man arose, with a heavy sigh, saying— 

“ J’ll only change my jacket, that I can do here. Oh: 
Kate!” he continued, as he divested himself of his wet jacket, 

and drew on the other—“ Oh! Kate! what between one thing 
and another this is no home for you! Indeed, indeed, every 
morning T go away from you with a heavy heart, and all day 
long I can hardly work for the dread that’s on my mind 
about you. If I could only find a place for you to wait on 
some lady, or to nurse a baby—but, Lord! what with the 
niggers there is never a place to be got here for a poor white 
irl.” 

“Oh, Carl, if you could get me the best place in the world 
—even a place to sew—I wouldn’t leave him. Why, Carl, it 
xould break his heart. He would grieve himself to death!” 

‘« And better for him that he should be dead! And better 
for you and all concerned !” 

“Oh, don’t say so, Carl! Don’t say so! Come and look 
at him, and let the sight soften your heart to him,” said the 
girl, taking the youth’s hand, and drawing him to the bed- 
side. ‘ Look, now, at that poor old wrinkled face—it has 
not got very long to live, anyhow—and see the two or three 
thin, white hairs on his temples—and see the poor, poor 
withered hands—so helpless! Oh! I think it is all so piti- | 
ful. And now see, he is asleep, but how much trouble there 
is on his poor old face—no, no! don’t say hard things of 
him, it cuts me to the heart! And, Carl, no matter how bad 
his fit may be, he never offers to hurt me or anything else. 

_ Only terror and horror is all that is on him-! He is a gentle, 
barmless, poor old man. And I always pity him like I pity 
any one very ill.” 

“Kate! I dare say you think this is all tender-heartedness, 
and you give yourself a great deal of credit for it! But I 
tell you it’s nothing but weakness. And it may be the ruin 
of you, too, Fefore long. And now I tell you, ’m going + 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 8a 


geta place for you, if Ican. Yes, and make you go to it, ton 
I can do without you—that is, 1 must do without you' 1 
can get the breakfast before I go away in the morning. And 
I can leave something for the old man’s dinner, and coms 
home time enough in the evening to get his supper! And 
to-morrow I am going down to the turnpike gate to thrash 
Scroggings, and bring your bonnet home. And I'll tell him 
if ever he lets the old man have any more liquor, Pll kick 
him round his groggery till he hasn’t got a whole bone left in 
his body. Yes, and I'll do it, too!” 

Kate was placing the supper on the table, but she turned, 
with the same expression of countenance with which she had 
stopped Fairfax at the foot of the stairs, and said— 

‘¢T should be very sorry for any violence from you, Carl. 
But of one thing be sure—do what you may, 1 will never, 
never leave our grandfather |” 

‘There! now, whenever you get that hateful Maria Theresa 
wok, I hate you, Katterin! I hate to see strength in wo- 
men! It don’t belong to them, nor grace them, anyhew!” 

“ Strength of affection does, Carl. But now please call 
the gentlemen down to supper,” said Kate. 

Car] rapped at the foot of the ladder, and summoned the 
travellers accordingly. 

Now, though Fairfax had honorably withdrawn from the 
trap-door, the moment he found that his services would not 
be required, and that the conversation between Kate and 
Carl was growing confidential, yet every word of that conver- 
sation had been distinctly heard by both young men, and had 
produced an effect upon both. Frank with difficulty withheld 
himself from exclaiming aloud, as pity, disgust, anger or ap- 
probation moved him in turn. Captain Clifton, far less im- 
pressible, and more reserved than his companion, had re- 
mained perfectly quiet and silent, though his thoughts were 
more practically busy with the case than those of his con- 
panion. They went down, and were received at the foot of . 
the ladder by Carl, who, with a sort of rough politeness, 
placed stools at the table, and invited them to be seated. 
They placed themselves at the board, at the head of which 
Kate already presided, with folded hands and downcast eyes. 
Then to their utter astonishment, the rude, irreverent young 
man, Carl, stood up and asked a blessing, saying, afterwards, 


36 THE MOUNTAIN AUT. 


that he was no parson, nor no Methodist, but Kate would 
have it so, and he thought it was best upon the whole, not to 
oppose females in such notions. And then he began to wait 
upon his guests. 

Their supper consisted of good coffee, with cream and ma- 
ple sugar; good bread, with fresh butter and cheese; venisuv 
steak and broiled chickens; and lastly, of a dish of bakea 
pears, cold, and a pitcher of milk. Frank was surprised to 
find such excellence of fare amid the ragged poverty of the 
mountain cabin, but, on afterwards expressing this surprise 
to Captain Clifton, he was told by the latter, that such con- 
trasts were by no means rare. Mr. Fairfax applied himself 
with zeal to the good things before him, until the sharpness 
of his appetite was sated, and then lingered long over the 
meal, conversing with his host upon the state of the country 
in his region, the climate and soil, productions, market, etc., 
and receiving from the young mountaineer the infoimation 
that there was no great amount of produce about there, ex- 
cept in the glens, grazing for the cattle, and that the reads 
were so bad, and the towns and villages so distant, that no- 
thing was raised for market, except such kind of produce as 
could walk thither, to wit: flocks and herds. That his 
grandfather, before the infirmities of age had come upon hin, 
had raised herds of kine and hogs, which he drove fifty miles 
to market every year; but that was some years ago, when he 
himself was a child. That now they only had a few sheep, 
which his sister tended while he was at work on a plantation 
at the foot of the mountain. In reply to a question Frank 
put while leisurely using his gold tooth-pick, the young man 
informed him farther that himself and his sister were of Ger- 
man and Irish descent. That the old man, their grandfather, 
was a German by birth, but had lived nearly seventy _years 
m America. That his name was Carl Wetzel, and his only 
daughter, Caterina, had been married to an Irish emigrant, 
of the name of Kavanagh. That they were the parents of 
himself‘and sister. Finally, that they had been dead nearly 
seven years. It was farther ascertained that old Carl Wet- 
vcl had been a man of considerable education; and it was 
easily scen that Carl Kavanagh had inherited much of his 
father’s Irish quickness of intelligence, and wucb of his 
grandfather’s German love of knowledge. 


THE MOUNTAIN HUY 37 


Frank, on his part, was equally communicative, and, in 
spite of the haughty reserve of Captain Clifton, informed hi. 
host that he had come up in that neighborhood for the pur- 
pose of acting as groomsman at the approaching marriage of 
his friend, Captain Jlifton, of the Regiment of a- 
valry, to his cousin, Miss Carolyn Gower Clifton, of Clifton 
- Place. That their journey, so far, had been rather disas- 
trous ; that they had set out from Washington City on horse- 
back, but had become so fatigued by the excessive heat, that 
they had been obliged, on arriving at Winchester, to take 
places for themselves in the stage for Staunton, and to hire 
a man to bring their horses after them—riding one and lead- 
ing the other, and so alternately. That before reaching 
Staunton, they had been thrown from the stage—without 
serious injury to themselves, however, and had been obliged 
to walk some ten miles to a village on their route, and wait 
the arrival of their horses, which, fortunately, were not 
many hours behind them. That they had ridden all day in 
a thick fog, lost their way, came near going over a fearful 
precipice, and finally got caught in the tempest that drove 
them for shelter to the cabin. 

During all this time, Captain Clifton had seemed lost in 
thought, and only once spoke to inquire of the young moun- 
taineer whether it were possible for them to pursue their 
journey that night. To this the young man replied that it 
would be impossible, even if it were then daylight, inasmuch 
as the torrents were swollen so greatly. And at the though 
of pursuing their journey, a pang of remorse for his for- 
getfulness of his horses shot through the breast of Frank, 
and— 

‘¢ What the devil can have become of Saladin?” he ex- 
claimed, starting up. 

“Oh, he is safe? answered Clifton. I saw them 
both in the shed as I looked from the little window up 
stairs.’ 

«¢ Who put them there ?” 

«T tended them,” answered the girl, quietly. 

They all now arose from the table. he girl cleared the 
board, and carried all the things out to wash up. Carl 
begged his guests to excuse him, and went out to give the 
horses a rub down and another feed. 





358 THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 


Captain Clitton threw himself into the arm-chair, crossed 
his legs, took out his tablets, and began to make memoran- 
dums. 

Frank impertinently peeped over his shoulder and read— 
“ Mem. Ask my mother if she can take a little gixl as a 
ecmpanion.” Clifton closed the book instantly, in silent 
rebuke of Frank’s impudence. And Frank himself walked | 
about fidgety and unhappy for not knowing what to do with 
himself, until, at a restless movement of the old man, he went 
and poured out a mug of water, and carefully keeping be- 
hind the eye of the patient, lifted up his head and gave him 
drink, and after setting down the empty mug, fanned him till 
he went sound asleep again. 

The brother and sister soon returned. Carl sat down and 
begun his best efforts at entertainment. But Frank, who 
amused himself by seeing everything, saw Kate go up stairs 
into the loft and bring down and carry out his own and his 
friend’s regimentals. 

After which she came in, and drawing a stool to the table, 

sat down and began to knit, as quietly, as silently, as if no 
strangers were in ‘her hut. 

Carl took down and laid upon the table a rough draught 
board, and invited his guests to play with each other. 

Frank eagerly caught at the opportunity, but Captain 
Clifton declined, on ‘the plea of distaste to the amuse- 
ment. 

“Play with me, my dear fellow, for pity sake,” said 
Frank to Carl, “‘and don’t mind my friend there! You see, 
he doesn’t want to play, neither does he want to talk, nor to 
do anything but sit and think about Miss Clifton.” 

“Do play with him, and keep him quiet, if you can, my 
good youth,” said Captain Clifton, turning his chair slightly 
aside from the table, so that his face was in the shade. Op- 
posite to him, at the other corner of the table, sat Katherine, 
with the light shining full upon her face and head, as she 
bowed it over her work. Captain Clifton did not fall into a 
brown study, he fell into a study of the brown girl. Let no 
one presume to misinterpret him. I% was not likely that a 
man of twenty-five should fall in love with a girl of four- 
teen. Dotards do such things, not men. Then it was 
atterly pi2posterous to suppose that Archor Clifton, of 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 39 


Clifton, Captain in the —-— Regiment of Cavalry, the fasti- 
dious amateur in female beauty, should be smitten with a 
hard-featured, sun-burned girl, in a coarse, homespun frock | 
that the all-accomplished scholar should be charmed with 
the little ignoramus; that the arrogant conservative of rank 
should condescend to a low-born mountaineer; or that the 
expectint bridegroom of the beautiful and haughty Carolyn 
Clifton, of Clifton, should wish t9 marry a girl who united 
all these repulsive qualities of ignorance, ruggedness, and 
low-birth. Yet if he could have looked only two short years 
into the future ! 

But Clifton was a physiognomist, and liked to study a 
novel individuality. A new and very curious subject was 
before him now. At first: he had seen in Kate nothing more 
than a coarse-featured, dark-skinned country girl. Now, as 
he sat and watched her at her quiet work, with her counte- 
nance in the repose of thoughtfulness, he saw that her fea- 
tures, though certainly not beautiful or classical, were even 
of a higher order of physiognomy, combming the rarest 
elements of power and goodness. The broad and massive 
forehead, straight nose, and square, firin jaws, were the strong 
and ugly features—the rugged frame work, as it were, of her 
countenance, and indicated great force of character. But 
her hair, eyes, and lips were beautiful. Her hair, of rich 
dark brown, with golden lights, rippled around her forehead, 
shading and softening its stern strength. Her eyes, large 
and shadowy, with drooping lashes, and her lips sweetly 
curved, full, and pensively closed, suggested a profound depth 
of tenderness. Indeed the brooding brow, the downcast eyes, 
and the compressed lips seemed to be habitual with her, and 
gave her countenance an expression of grief and care beyond 
her years, and of thought and intellect above her station. As 
Clifton sat aud siudied her, he thought—not of 


“Full many a flower that’s born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air,” 


for the girl did not resemble a flower so much as a hardy, 
pine sapling of her native mountains. No; that look, strength, 
intellect, and self-balance—in a word—that oo of POWER. 
suggested rather—gir/ as she was-- 


40 THE MOUNTAIN HOT. 


‘Some village Hampden with undaunted breast, 
* * * * 


Some mute inglorious Milton, * * ® 
Scme CroMwELt guiltless of his country’s blood.” 


lt was a Maria-Theresa face without the wickedness. 

Captain Clifton’s physiognomical studies were interrupted 
by the abrupt starting of Frank, who exclaimed vehe 
mently— 

“ Beaten in four games! Now, that’s what I call vut- 
rageous! Don’t you know, my dear fellow, that there are 
three persons in the world who should never be beaten—a 
guest, a woman, and a monarch ?” 

Carl laughed and chuckled, and beating the draught-board 
tamborine-like above his head in triumph, carried it off and 
put it away. 

The whole party then arose to retire. Carl took the 
eandle and showed his guests up into the loft and left them 
to repose. 

‘‘ Now where will that child sleep, for we have got her 
room?’ asked Frank, with concern, as soon as they were 
alone. 

“Oh-h!” replied Captain Clifton, indifferently, ‘ any- 
where—on a pallet—perhaps, down stairs.” 

“ But the old man and the young one—”- 

‘‘Oh-h!” again drawled Clifton, in a bored tone, “if you 
expect to meet with refinement among the mountain people, 
you will be disappointed.” 

Long after the travellers had laid down to rest, they heard 
the sound of footsteps moving about in the room below. 
They moved quietly and cautiously, as if fearful of disturb- 
ing the guests; but, as I said before, all sounds, even the 
Jawest, could be distinctly heard through that shell of 2 
house. 

On awaking the next morning, the young men found their 
own clothes well cleaned, dried, and pressed, ready for them 
to put on. 

“Ah, ha!” said the sagacious Frank, * that is what the 
poor girl was at work at so late last night.” 

On going down stairs they found the lower room neatly 
arranged, and breakfast ready for them—hot coffce, corn 
oone, h»t rolls, vashers of fried bacon, eggs, potatoes, eta 


THE MOUNTAIN HUT. 1} 


And there, in the arm-chair, in a clean homespun suit, sat 
the old man, looking as calm, as self-possessed, as noble and 
venerable as a Roman senator. He arose and bowed to the 
gentlemen, and offered his chair to one of them. 

No wonder it bowed the young girl’s head with grief and 
shame—it pained and humbled even these strangers, to know 
that this most reverened white-haired patriarch was often 
transformed by drunkenness into the beast! . It was a dis- 
ease, Kate had often said, wringing her hands with anguish, 
- while seeing his degradation. 

It was a disease, and never till vice is treated as such, will 
an effectual remedy be applied. 

Immediately after breakfast, the gentlemen took leave of 
the family, and mounted their horses to pursue their journey. 
Frank, in the thoughtless kindness of bis heart, would have 
otfered the poor people some remuneration for their enter- 
tainment, but Clifton, who knew the habits and feelings of 
the mountaineers better, arrested a purpose that might have 
given offence. But on parting with Carl Kavanagh, Captain 
Clifton expressed his thanks for the hospitality that had been 
extended to himself and friend—adding, that if he could 
then, or at any time, in any manner, be of use to his kind 
host, he should be happy to serve him, ete., ete. To this the 
young man replied— 

“<I thank you, sir. I know Captain Clifton by report, and 
feel that 1 can trust to his generosity. I have a heavy care 
—my young sister. If you could hear of a place at service 
for her among the honorable ladies of your family or acquain- 
tance, I should feel very grateful indeed, sir.” 

Captain Clifton kindly gave his promise to make inquiries. 
Frank again shook hands with Cari, bowed to Kate, nodded 
to the old man through the window, and then the travellers 
tuned from the door of the mountain hut, cantered kriskly 
up the glen, and took the road to WuITE CLIFFs. 


49 OLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 


CHAPTER II. 


CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 


“ Against the cliffs 
See’st thou not where the mansion stands? The moo.beam 
Strikes or the granite column, and tall trees 
Group shadowy round it.’”,—ANoNyMous. 


A most portentous trial waits thee now— 
Woman’s bright eyes and dazzling snowy brow.—Moorz 


‘'HE torrents had been so terribly swollen and overflowed, 
and the roads so dreadfully washed and guttered by the tem- 
pest and flood of the preceding evening, that the travellers 
found the greatest difficulty in pursuing their journey, often 
having to turn back miles on this road to take another way, 
and often being obliged to search leagues up and down the 
course of a river, to find a practicable ford. 

Therefore it was near night-fall when they crossed the last 
range of forest-crowned mountains, and descended into the 
wooded valley that lay between them and White Cliffs. A 
winding road through the woods brought them to the house. 
The full moon was rising East of the cliffs, and casting their 
shadow back across the house and lawn. The mansion was 
a lofty edifice of white stone, with terraced roof, and many 
irregular, projecting wings. ‘The tall trees surrounding the 
buildings, the lofty cliffs rising behind them, the dark shadow 
falling on all; the hour, the silence, and the solitude, gave 
an air of refreshing coolness and deep repose to the scene. 
On turning an angle of the building, they saw the drawing- 
room windows open, and the light from them gleaming out 
cheerfully across that part of the lawn. At that moment a 
servant, waiting at the hall door, came down to take their 
horses. 

All well at home, Dandy ?” inquired Captain Clifton, 
he dismounted, and threw hiin the reins. 

‘‘Sarvint, sir All v>ry well,’’ replied the man. touching 
his hat. 


CLIFTON AND TITE BEAUTIES 43 


Captain Clifton led the way up into the hall adjoining the 
drawing room, where they were met by an old geutleman, 
who seized both of Clifton’s hands, and shook them slowly 
and cordially, as he said, dropping each word separately, 
with a hearty, luscious emphasis— 

“¢ Why—my—dear—boy—how glad I am—to see you!” 

‘And I am very happy to be with you, sir; and to find 
you looking so well. Allow me to introduce to your ac- 
quaintance—Lieutenant Fairfax, of my company,” said Cap- 
tain Clifton, presenting his friend. 

“Glad to seeyhim! Glad to see Mr. Fairfax! Glad to 
welcome any friend of my nephew’s to Clifton. How do you 
do, sir? Knew your relative, Lord Fairfax, of Greenway 
Courthouse. Excessively fond of hunting. Kept bachelor’s 
hall. Very great mistake, that—very! Hope you won’t 
follow his example! Fine man, however, and I honor his 
memory! Come in, sir! come in! Come in, Archy! My 
—dear—boy—I’m—so—del—ighted to see you!” 

Whenever he spoke to his nephew, he seemed to dwell 
upon each separate syllable with a cordiality impossible to 
describe. 

He was a large, old gentleman, clothed in a fresh, fragrant 
suit of pale blue linen, with his hair as white as votton, his 
fresh, rosy complexion, fine teeth, and clear, kind, blue eyes, 
making a most refreshing picture of simplicity, cheerfulness, 
and cleanliness of soul and body in old age. He- was of a 
sanguine temperament, and under great provocation, could 
get into a passion, too. And what old father of a family, 
with two grown daughters, and a young wife, all under 
eighteen years of age, and all beauties, has not enough com- 
bustible material to burn the house down, or set his own tein- 
per on fire ?—yet such was the kindness of his heart, that 
even when in violent anger, stamping up and down the floor, 
grasping desperately at his own white temple locks with both 
hands, and vociferating in stentorian tones—it was all, ay 
Frank afterwards said, shooting with blank cartridges—he 
never said a word, or did a thing, to wound a single soui. 

“T trus' the ladies are all well, sir,’ said Captain Clifton, 
as he followed his uncle. 

«< Yes—-yes—that is to say, Carry is well, but not well 
pleased, She expected you yesterday—didn’t consider the 


14 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 


storm any excuse for your absence. Ah! you dog—you sad 
dog—at your age would J have kept a lady waiting? Nay, 
would I do it now? But come, shall I present you to the 
ladies now, or do you prefer first the ref: eshment of the bath 
and a change of dresst? Your own and your friend’s bag- 
gage arrived this morning by the wagon, and has been con 
veyed to your rooms.” 

“Oh, a change of dress, by all means!”’ suggested Frank. 

“ Dandy—Danpy !” exclaimed the old gentleman, raising 
his strong’ voice, till the servant appeared, “show Mr. 
Fairfax to General Washington’s room.” —, 

General Washington had slept one night at Clifton, and 
from that time to this, the room he occupied has been 
“ General Washington’s room.” 

The servant conducted Mr. Fairfax up stairs. And then 
the old gentleman, turning to his nephew, took his hands 
again, and said— ws 

‘¢My dear boy, once more I must say, I’m—so—glad—ta 
—see you! Yow are at home, you know. So go and find 
your room, and ring and give your orders, my son, for you 
are so. And I will go and let the ladies know that you have 
eome, though I dare say they know it already.” 

_ And shaking his hands, he let them go and turned slowly 
away. 

Half an hour sufficed the young gentlemen to make them- 
selves presentable. At the end of which time they descended 
the stairs, and were met in the hall by old Mr. Clifton, who 
ushered them into the drawing-room. 

This apartment was a most delightful summer room. It 
was very spacious, occupying the whole first floor of one 
of those irregular wings of the house. The ceiling was lofty, 
the walls were covered with pearl white paper, and the floor 
of white oak was waxed and polished to an ivory smooth- 
ness. On three sides were tall windows, reaching to the 
floor, and opening out upon the piazza or the lawn, and 
draped with snowy, flowing curtains. On the fourth side 
was the open fire-place, whitened inside, and having on its 
marble hearth an alabaster vase of lilies, whose fragrance 
fi‘led the air. The walls were adorned with tall mirrors, and 
with choice paintings, all of a cool, refrigerating character, 
such as: An Alpine Scene, A Green Forest Glade, with 


CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 45 


Deer Reposing, A Mountain Lake, A Shaded Pond, with 
Cows, A Farm Yard in a Snow Storm, ete. A piano stood 
at the farthest end of the room. A harp reclined near it. 
A. few marble-topped stands and tables, scattered over with 
rare prints, books, virtu, bijouterie, etc., stood at convenient 
distances. A lady’s elegant work-table, with its costly tri- 
fles, was a pleasing feature in the room. Sofas, ottomans, 
divans, and lounging chairs, “fitted to a wish for study or | 
repose,” were everywhere at hand. 

Through the open windows came the evening wind, laden 
with the fragrance of flowers, the murmur of falling waters, 
the whisper of leaves, and the cherry chirp of insects— 
those night songsters who begin when the birds go to sleep— 
nature’s vesper choir. While from the open windows could 
be darkly seen the tall shadowy trees, the towering white 
cliffs, and, in the distance, a bend of that great river which 
took its rise here, and which there sleeping among the dark 
green hills, with the moon shining full upon it, seemed a re- 
splendent mountain lake, flashing back the moonbeams from 
its bosom in rays of dazzling light. The whole effect of 
the room and the scene was delightfully cooling and re- 
freshing. 

When Mr. Clifion conducted his guests into this saloon, 
it was occupied by three young ladies, who, immediately on 
their entrance, arose to receive them; and whom, in present- 
ing his visitors, Mr. Clifton severally named as, My wife, 
Mrs. Clifton,—my daughter, Miss Clifton, and my second 
daughter, Zuleime. Captain Clifton, in turn, saluted his aunt 
and cousins. Miss Clifton, his betrothed, received him with 
cold hauteur. 

So, these were the beauties—and beautiful, passing beau 
tiful, they were indeed, though differing from each other in 
beauty, as “Sone star differs from another in glory.” But 
let me describe them. 

Jarolyn Clifton is tall and elegantly proportioned, and 
m-ves with high-bred dignity. Her features are Greciaa— 
her complexion is dazzlingly fair, save when the pure rich 
blood mantles in her check, and crimsons the short and scorns 
ful lip. Her eyes are blue, and half veiled by their fair 
lashes, as in disdain of aught that might seek their glance. 
Wer fair hair is carried up from her forehead, and falls in 


3 


46 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES 


bright tendril-like curls around the back of her neck, Jend- 
ing an intellectual and queenly grace to the proud *heaa, 
The costume of that day closely resembled the prevailing 
mode of cur own. Miss Clifton wore a dress of pale blue 
silk, made low in the neck, with a long-waisted stomacher, 
tight sleeves reaching to the elbows, and ample flowing skirt. 
The neck was trimmed with a fall of deep lace, then called 
a ‘‘ tucker,” and answering to the present berthé. The tight 
half-sleeves were trimmed at the elbows by deep lace ruiiles, 
shading the arm. . A necklace of large strung pearls around 
her throat, a bracelet of the same on her arm, and a pear|- 
headed pin run through the Grecian knot of ringlets at the 
back of her head, completed her toilet. She carried in her 
hand and toyed carelessly with a beautiful fan of marabout 
feathers. She was the daughter of the first Mrs. Clifton, of 
Clifton, a fair, proud Maryland lady, one of the haughty : 
Gowers, who lived long enough to augment by precept and 
example, tle double portion of family arrogance Carolyn 
Clifton had inherited from both sides of her house. ° Miss 
Clifton had “ received her education” at a first-class *¢ La- 
dies’ Institute ” at Richmond. 

Zuleime, the younger sister, was about fourteen years of 
age, but well grown and fuli-formed for her years. She was 
the daughter of the second Mrs. Clifton, a beautiful West 
Indian Creole, who died in giving her life. She had the 
snowy skin and damask cheek of her father’s fair race, 
and the glittering black hair and sparkling black eyes of her 
Creole mother. Her dress was of plain white muslin, with 
short sleeves and low neck, and coral necklace, which well 
set off the exceeding brilliancy of her complexion. Zuleime 
was home for the mid-summer holidays. 

Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton, Georgia ! 

‘«¢ Yes, she is indeed the most beautiful woman in the whole 
world,” exclaimed Fairfax, to himself, as he turned from the 
fair and dignified Carolyn—the brilliant and sparkling Zu- 
lsime, to the dark and graceful Georgia. She is of mediute 
heizht. Her complexion is a rich, dark, uniform olive, het 
yery cheeks being of the same hue, but so transparently clear, 
that that which would mar the perfcction of another face, 
adds deeper beauty to hers. Yes! the delicate bloom of 
the fair Carolyn, and the bright damask blusb of the bril- 


CLIFTON AND THE SEAUTIES. 17 


liant Zuleime, seem common-place beside the perfevt beauty 
of the pure, clear olive cheek of the dark Georgia. Her 
hair is intensely black, with depths under depths of dark 
ness, lurking in the labyrinths of irregular curls that cluster 
around, and throw so deep a shadow over her witching face. 
Her eyebrows are black andarched. Her eyelashes are leng, 
black, and drooping.- Her eyes are—pause—I have been 
trying to think of something to which her wondrous eyca 
may be compared, for darkness, profundity and power. Mid- 
night? No, her eyes are darker, stiller, and more solemn 
yet. Thunder clouds? No, for her eyes are more stormy 
and impending still—and their electric stroke is silent as it 
is fatal. In short, her eyes resemble nothing but themselves. 
Her dress is of black gauze, over black silk, nade high to 
veil her neck, and finished with a narrow black lace, within 
which gleams around her throat a necklace of jet and gold. 
She wears no other jewelry. <A large black lace mantilla is 
carelessly thrown over all. When she moves her every 
movement is undulating grace—her motion might be set to 
music. And when she sits still she 1s so still, and dark, and 
beautiful—and something else, besides, that the gazer expe- 
riences something like the fascination and terror one feels in 
looking down the depths of a dark chasm. 

She was the daughter of a portrait painter in Richmond, 
and this was what Captain Archer Clifton, in his arrogance, 
called humble parentage. Mr. Clifton had met her under 
the following circumstances: On finally withdrawing his eld- 
est daughter from school, he wished, before carrying her 
home, to have her portrait taken, and went for that purpose - 
to the studio of Mr. Fuller, portrait and miniature painter, 
where he chanced to see her for the first time, the artist’s 
beautiful child, Georgia. He took so strong a fancy to this 
oewitching creature, that he delayed his departure—prolong- 
ing his stay in the city for three wecks, at the end of which. 
besides the accomplished Miss Clifton, with her elegant 
wardrobe, splendid jewels, costly presents, and finished por- 
trait—he took home the artist’s daughter as the fourth Mrs. 
Ulifton, of Clifton much to the indignation of the haughty 
Carolyn, who never ceased to treat her beautiful young step- 
mother with scorn and contempt. 

Sup] er was announced, and the old gentleman, rising, 





48 - CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 


requested his nephew to lIcad in his wife, while he himself, 
took the arm of his eldest daughter, and left Zuleime to Mr. 
Fairfax. They crossed the hall and entered a large and 
pleasant dining-room, where stood an elegant table, laid with 
a damask table-cloth, set out with silver plate, and Sevres 
orcelain, and laden “ with all the luxuries of the season.” 
Vaiters of perfect dress and address were in attendance. 

“‘T assure you, Miss Zuleime, that contrast is all the sea-_ 
soning of existense—and this is a high seasoning. For yes- 
terday we sat down tu eat supper off of pewter plates, on a 
bare board, in a mean hut, in company with rude moun- 
taineers, and to-night we sit at the elegant tea-table of 
Clifton, surrounded with beautiful, refined, and accomplished 
ladies,” said Frank, as he handed his lively companion into 
her chair, and took the seat by her side. : 

The sprightly Zuleime laughed, and said she doubted 
whether he would find more substantial or savory fare here 
than he got at the mountain-hut. 

After all were seated, and all served, the conversation 
became general and vivacicus—old Mr. Clifton being evi- 
dently “the life of the company.” He chatted, jested, 
laughed, told anecdotes, and finally, inspired Frank, who 
gave a laughable description of their adventures on the Alle- 
ghanies ; of being upset in the stage-coach, and pitehed into 
Wolfs Lick; of being lost in the fog, and near going down 
the Devil’s Staircase ; finally, of being caught in the tempest, 
and shut up in a mountain-but with a raving maniac. At 
this the old gentleman began to rally his proud daughter on 
her gratuitous ill-lhumcur of the preceding evening, at the 
said delay, and then to scold the yoeng men for their effemi- 
nacy and want of gallantry, courage, in suffering themselves 
to be deluged by the storm. Now, to be charged, all at 
once, with effemmacy, and want of gallantry, and courage, 
even in jest, was too much, and in Frank’s case, teo near 
the truth to go without reply. So he began vehemently to 
clear his fame, assuring the assembled conipany that it was 
not altogether effeminacy, for that they had been hospitably 
sheltered in the cabin of a beautiful shepherdess. 

‘“‘ Yes,” said Frank, maliciously, “so beautiful that Clifton 
there couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and while I sat and 
played checkers with her brother, he sat and studied her 


CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 49 


face, ‘and it were a book’—for hours. I wish you had sven 
him, Miss Clifton— 


‘¢» Never gazea the moon 
Upon the water as he sat and read 
As ’lwere Ler eyes.’ 


Fact, my dear lady, and I should be guilty of misprision of 
treason, to conceal it!”’ laughed Frank, shaking his head at 
his friend. 

“ Ah-h-h! H-a-a-ah!—are you there, my fine fellow!” 
chuckled the old gentleman, gleefully rubbing his hands, 
and pointing his finger at his nephew, greatly enjoying his 
discomfiture. 

‘‘T assure you, sir,” began Captain Clifton, gravely. 

“Oh! don’t assure me! don’t assure me! Assure 
Carolyn! What d’ye think o’ that, Carolyn? What d’ye 
think 0? that? More cause for ill-humor last night, than 
ye thought, eh! What think o’ that?’ he continued, mer- 
cilessly. 

And Carolyn— 


‘¢Oh, what a deal of scorn looked bez.utiful 
In the contempt and anger of her lip!” 


There are some women who cannot bear jest upon such 
subjects—who cannot tolerate that their lovers should louk 
with common curiosity—far less gaze with interest or admi- 
ration “ for hours,”” upon any other young female face. And 
such a woman was Carolyn Gower Clifton. Captain Clifton 
knew this, and adoring her above all things, silently wished 
Frank and the mountain girl both at the bottom of the Devil’s 
Staircase. | 

The old gentleman chatted and laughed; Frank jested 
and blundered; the sprightly Zuleime sparkled and over- 
flowed with fun and frolic, and the meal went on merrily, 
notwithstanding. 

W hen supper was over they adjourned to the airy summer 
drawing-room, where they distributed themselves according 
to their several humors. Miss Clifton passed impcriously 
down the room, and took her seat upon a distant divan. 
Captain Clifton followed, with a troubled air, and sat down 


50 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES. 


on the low ottoman at her feet. They doubtless thought 

if they thought at all—-that they were in a very obscv.« 
nook. But rank bad the impertinence to see them. There 
sat the haughty and scornful girl, with chin erect, lip 
curled, and eyelids cast down in disdain upon her suppliaut. 
And there sat Archer Clifton, with his high, proud face 
‘turned up to hers, with an earnest, pleading, passionate 

aze ! 

. «¢ Now, by the venom of Cupid’s shaft !” exclaimed Frank, 
to himself, «I cannot see what Clifton finds to worship in 
that arrogant girl. If it were this bright, warm Zulemne, 
here, now! But her! I might really suspect im of being 
a fortune-hunter, and Aer of being an heiress, if I didn’t 
know that Archer Clifton is himself the heir of the entailed 
estate of Clifton, and that if his uncle were to die to-night, 
he might, if he pleased, turn all these penniless women out 
of the house to-morrow! Can’t understand it, for my life! 
But I suppose the bond of sympathy between them is their 
name acd their pride !” 

“Do you find talking to yourself a very amusing pastime, 
Mr. Fairfax,” asked Zuleinie, touching him on the elbow. 

“No, my dear, delightful little girl, I don’t. What a 
delightful thing, in a country house, is a beautiful girl of 
fourteen, home for the holydays—a black-eyed, red-lipped 
girl, in a white muslin gown and a coral necklace !” 

“Are your soliloquies as good natured as your conversa- 
tion, Mr. Fairfax,” inquired the laughing Zuleime. 

<< Not quite, I’m afraid, my dear.’ 

“Do you know how to play chess, Mr. Fairfax?? she 
asked, opening the chess-board. 

“‘[ know how to play anything you wish me to play, my 
love—even the fool!” 

“Oh! the latter is not so rare or difficult an accomplish- 
went,” laughed the maiden, taking her seat, and begiuning 
to arrange the chess-men. Trank sat down, and they com- 
menced the game in earnest. 

All this time the old gentleman, with his white head and 
rosy face, and kind smile and glance, had been walking 
leisurely up and down the floor slowly, rubbing his hands 
with an air of great enjoyment—pausing now by the work- 
table at which sat his beautiful wife, and gazing on her 


CLIFTON AND TUE BEAUTIES. 5] 


fondly while he toyed with the elegant. trifles of her work- 
box—then sauntering off towards the chess-table, and patting 
the head of his * little black-headed darling’”’—as he called 
Zuleime—or passing a jest with Frank as he overlooked the 
game—until the boy came from the post-office somewhat late ; 
when taking the paper ke went and ensconced himself in an 
easy-chair on the opposite side of his wife’s work-table, and 

was soon busied in the perusal of the debate on Mr. Jeffer- 
son’s bill for cutting off entails. Frank felt very much 
pleased that the old” boy, as he mentally called him, was 
“quieted at last, and that he himself had at length an oppor- 
tunity of initiating his charming companion into the mys- 
teries of flirtation, while she imparted to him the secrets 
of chess. 

The room was now very quiet. And Frank was soon deeply 
immersed in his game. Yes—the room was very quiet, it 
seemed the sanctuary of domestic love and happiness! At 
one extremity sat the betrothed lovers, conversing in a low 
tone, softer than the hum of far-off bees. At the other ex- 
tremity sat the graceful young wife, placidly pursuing her 
quiet work, and seeming more like the darling spoiled child 
of the old man, her husband, who sat reading by her side, 
and whose kind eyes often wandered from the paper and 
rested fondly upon her. About midway of the room, sat 
Frank and his bright companion, too deeply interested in 
their chess to notice the happy lovers, or to observe the quiet 
contentment of the old man with his beautiful darling. Yes, 
this room seemed a temple of domestic truth and trust- -of 
family peace and joy. At least so thought Frank, until 
raising his eyes from his game, his glance chanced to fall for 
an instant upon the face of Mrs. Clifton. 

It might have been the darkness of her surroundings 
which threw into such strong relief that fearful countenance, 
for the black dress and flowing black mantilla veiled all her 
form, while the clustering deep black curls darkly shaded 
her face. Her form was turned from the table and bent 
over the arm of the chair—her bosom was heaving, her lips 
apart and humid, her nostrils slightly distended, and her 
eyes, those dreadful eyes, fixed with a passionate, fierce, 
devouring gaze upon some distant object. 

Frank ‘impulsively followed the direction of that consuming 


UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 


LIRDADY 


59 CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES, 


gaze, to where the betrothed lovers sat fully reconciled, 
Clifton, unconscious of all eyes, but those blue orbs that 
smiled so graciously upon him, was pressing Carolyn’s hand 
to his lips in an ecstacy of love and gratitude. Frank 
turned again to Mrs. Clifton. Her countenance had changed 
as by the passage of a thunder-cloud. Her bosom was stil] 
as death. Her brow and cheek was darkened, her teeth and 
lips clenched together, her eyes fixed upon the lovers with 
the baleful glare of ademon. If the head of the fabled Me~ 
dusa had suddenly met his astonished gaze, he could not 
have felt a deeper thrill of horror. And yet it was only a 
look—the look of an instant—it came and went like the 
swift swooping past of a fiewd’s wing—but the shadow on all 
things seemed to remain. No more did that room seem the 
blessed retreat of household faith and love—no! a deadly 
serpent lay coiled among its flowers—a deadly poison lurked 
Ir its cup of joy—the shadow of a demon’s wing was brood- 
ing in the air—the house was CURSED! 

Frank was of a highly honorable nature, but nervous and 
impressible—he could no longer confine his attention to the 
game; he misplayed awkwardly—ridiculously. Zuleime 
laughed at him—and her silver laughter struck almost un- 
pleasantly upon his ear. He lost the game, and finally, 
complimenting his young antagonist upon the excellence of 
her own play—an excellence which he admitted he had not 
fully brought out—F rank arose from the table and sauntered 
out into the piazza, exclaiming inwardly—* Ugh! I believe 
in Satan, since I’ve seen that woman! Ugh! Whe-ew! 
Every time I think of her I shall feel hot and smell brim- 
stone!”? I said that Frank was of an extremely impressible 
nature. He stood now upon the piazza at the back of the 
house, and the majestic crescent of cliffs was before him. 
The quiet of the night, the freshness of the dew, the coolness 
of the breeze, the beauty and sublimity of the mountains 
rising from their girdle of forest, with their peaks bathed in 
moonlight—the distant glimpse of the bend in the river, 
where it lay like a silver lake among the hills—the divine 
peace and holiness of nature fell soothingly, refreshingly 
upon his excited nerves. And after sauntering up and down 
the piazza for some twenty minutes, he returned to the par- 
for in a happier mood. There he found the family grouped 


SLIFTON AND TUE BEAUTIES. oe 


around the table on which sat a silver basket of pme-apples 
with cut-glass plates, and silver fruit knives and napkins. 

“ Come, Mr. Fairfax, my dear fellow, we are waiting fo1 
you,” said the old gentleman, beckoning him. 

Frank joined thes a3 the tabic, aad after this repast was 
ever, the family separated and retired to bed. 


54 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 


CHAPTER I. 


MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 


Soe 1s a ady of confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and de 
terminate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate alfront, nor 
siow to feel where just provocation is given.—CuHarLes Lams. 


Cuirton by the morning sunlight! Oh! that I could 
show it to you as Fairfax saw it from the balcony of his 
chamber on the morning after his arrival! The whole face 
of the country was very high. yet even this elevated land 
was broken into hills and valleys, rocks and glens. Behind 
the house arose the white cliffs so often mentioned, shutting 
out the Northern view, but before the house lay the valley 
in which the plantation was situated, and around that, Hast, 
West and South, stretched a magnificent panorama, ridge 
beyond ridge of mountains, covered with gigantic forests, 
clothed with the richest verdure, rolling on until they gradu- 
ally faded away in the distance, their forms lost among the 
clouds of the horizon. It seemed a vast, boundless ocean of 
greenery, of which the vales and mountains were the stu- 
pendous waves, charmed to sleep. 

It was a magnificent solitude. Nota human dwelling to 
be seen. The planters’ mansions—if there were any in the 
neighborhood, were low in the vales, and hidden from sight. 
The mountain torrent, as it came leaping down the side of 
the cliff, running through the wooded lawn, losing itself in 
the forest vale, and reappearing as a mountain lake among 
the distant hills, was a beautiful feature in the landscape. 
The deep intense blue of the clear skies, the early splendor 
of the sun-light, the murmur of the breeze among the wav- 
ing trees, the joyous songs of birds, gladdened all the scene, 
and put to flight Frank’s blue devils, long before Dandy 
ealled him to breakfast. 

The breakfast-table was set in the lawn under the shadow 
of the pine elms. 


MRS. CLIFTON OF HARDBARGAIN. 509 


The old gentleman, in his suit of cool white linen—the 
sisters in neat morning dresses of white cambric, and thie 
dark Georgia, in her usual dress of black, were assembled | 
on the piazza. They greeted Mr. Fairfax with lively wel- 
come, telling him that Clifton had not yet made his appear- 
ance. But even while they spoke, Captain Clifton joined 
them, and they sat down to breakfast. Those breakfasts on 
the lawn! How many times in after years, in the sultry 
heat of the city hotel, did Fairfax recall them! 

Soon after breakfast, Captain Clifton invited Mr. Fairfax 
to accompany him in a ride up the ridge to his mother’s 
farm. And after taking leave of the ladies they set out. 
They left the house by | the back way, and took a winding 
bridle-path up the side of the cliffs. The day was very fine 
and cool, and their path was shaded by overhanging trees. 
{t was altogether a delightful ride, and as they went up, 
Mlifton, who led the way, turned his head around and in- 
quired— 

“Frank! what instigated you to romance so last night 
about our sojourn at the mountain hut ?” 

“Romance? I didn’t romance, except in saying that the 
girl was beautiful. I said ¢hat for your credit !” 

“On! I ought to be exceedingly obliged to you!” 

“ Yes—I think so, too—but what malicious Puck gave 
you a love-weed, and fooled you into sitting and studying 
that ugly little girls hard face all the evening ?” 

“‘T did not think her ugly at all. She has a noble conn- 
tenance. A most noble countenance. One, of which an 
empress might be proud of!” 

“Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! J saw nothing buta 
mountainous forehead, anda strong portcullis jaw! ‘ Noble:’ 
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! T said yowd taken the lov e-powder ! he 

«¢ Yet even you cannot find any but a noble simile in speak- 
ing of her ‘ugly’ features!” 

“Ah! what will Miss Clifton think of this adiniration ?” 

“Sir, Miss Clifton has my deepest homage, and when she 
is my wife, she will indulge no follies. But, Fairfax, you 
sie absurd, and I beg you will abandon this ridiculous con- 
versation. You know that I have always had a proclivity 
- to the study of character. Nature made me something of a 
physiognomist. And if there be any truth in my favorite 


{6 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN 


science, that mountain girl’s face presented the most extra- 
ordinary combination of power and goodness I have ever 
met with.” 

‘¢Oh! then you only studied the maiden as the botanist 
would study a new plant, the geologist a new fossil, or the 
naturalist a strange animal ?— 

—‘“ Or the astronomer a new STAR? Precisely, sir! Ex- 
cept that the human being is the highest and most absorbing 
study of all!” 

“ Really! really! this passes belief—the proud, fastidious 
Archer Clifton, to be smitten with an ugly mountain girl !” 

«Frank! Nonsense—you really anger me. Listen, then, 
and I will tell you why that child—for she is but a child— 
interested me so much. I saw in her face the signs of won- 
derful force of character, as yet undeveloped, and I saw in 
all her actions that which corroborated their testimony. I 
was surprised to find all that in the humble mountaineer, 
and speculated as to what, in her very humble situation, it 
might lead. That was simply all!” 

«¢ And did you not wish to be a providence to the moun- 
tain girl, and open a field for so much energy ?”’ 

“Perhaps such a thought might have presented itself to 
my mind. If so, it was dismissed at once. A highly gifted 
man of low birth must have extraordinary talents indeed, 
and be placed in extraordinary circumstances, to elevate 
himself above his condition—for a girl in such a case it is 
impossible. But, Fairfax, really this conversation has taken 
a more serious tone than I designed it should. Really, 
nobility of character, though very rare ameng the lower 
classes of society, is yet not so impossible as to excite our 
wonder. There are others like Kate Kavanagh—” 

—‘ How pat you’ve got her name! Now J had forgotten 
it !” 

“Pooh! I say there are others like her. They are born 
great—they live and die, and the world hears nothing of 
them. And talents that might have swayed the counsels of 
a monarch, and decided the destinies of an empire, have 
been employed to direct the household of a shepherd, and 
determine the fate of asheep! Such is the order of society, 
and better, far better so, than that its boundaries should be 
thrown down, its ranks intermingled !” 


MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 67 


“There spoke a Clifton of Clifton!” said Frank. 

They were now at the top of the ridge, and entering upon 
w hard, stony, balf-reclaimed farm, in the midst of which 
stood a rnde, but substantial house, built of hewn rocks of 
every shade of gray, and surrounded by trees. - Below them, 
all around, rose the forest-erowned hills; behind them the 
white cliffs concealed the mansion of Clifton from their sight 
all around them lay fields of stunted corn. 

‘This is Hardbargain,”’ said Captain Clifton, opening a 
tude farm gate, and holding it open, while his companion 
passed through. 

‘«¢ Hardbargain! a most appropriate name! I should think 
it the hardest of all bargains, to receive this farm as a pre- 
cious gift,” replied Frank, looking around upon the stony 
field and stunted corn. 

“Yes,” admitted Captain Clifton, “it is awell-merited title. 
It was once called Rocky Ridge. A poor man got a grant 
of it,and settled there first—spent all iis health and strength 
in trying to bring the rugged soil under cuitivation—failed 
— christened the place Hardseva/ble, and sold it to my grand 
father for thrice its value. My grandfather repented the 
purchase, re-christened the ill-starred farm Hardbargain, 
and, as the Clifton estate was entailed upon bis eldest son, 
gave this farm asa portion to his younger son, my father. 
My father was then a subaltern officer in the Continental 
Army, and absent with Washington, at Valley Forge. My 
mother, with myself, then an infant, was a temporary 
sojourner at Clifton. No sooner had my grandfather made a 
git to my father of this nearly barren farm, than my mother 
set all her faculties at work for its cultivation and improve- 
ment. My mother was nearly penniless, being the daughter 
of a family of decayed fortune. My father was unable to 
send her anything except the Continental notes, with which 
he himself was paid, but which would scarcely pass farther. 
But being determined not to eat the bread of dependence by 
remaining at Clifton after my grandfather’s death, my mother 
sold all her j jewelry and plate, which had been left her by a 
deceased maiden aunt, and applied the proceeds of the sale 
to the improvement of Hardbargain. She hired laborers 
There was a rude log hut, built by the first settle: upon the 
‘and. She hired a woman, and placed her in that hut to 


58 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 


keep house and cook for them. She read books on agricul- 
ture, and consulted my uncle’s overseer upon the same sub- 
ject. And every morning she rode up and spent the day at 
Hlardbargain, overlooking the laborers. She was her own 
overseer! Frank! you appreciate high worth when you see 
it I may, besides, tell you anything—you are my only 
companion—I tell you that my dear mother was one in ten 
thousand. She was a true heroine, a heroine of domestic 
life. Abandoning all her habits of elegance and refinement, 
despising luxury, ease and comfort, disdaining the sneers of 
the world, and giving herself to toil and hardship, and weari- 
ness of body and mind, that she might win from the desert 
an independent home for her family! My dear mother haa 
no reason to suppose, and never admitted the possibility that 
my uncle would not be blessed with a male heir, that /, her 
son, for whom she toiled to secure a rugged farm, would be 
the inheritor of entailed Clifton! And so she toiled, year 
after year, until at the end of the war, when the army was 
reduced, and my father came home, he found a comfortable 
house, and a productive farm.” 

Clifton seemed to have fallen into one of his fits of remi- 
niscence ; scarcely conscious that he was talking to his true 
but volatile friend, scarcely conscious that he was talking al 
all, he went on— 

‘“‘ My first recollection of my dearest mother, is of a very 
noble looking lady, of dark complexion, black hair, and gray 
eyes. I recollect, when an infant of four years old, being 
brought out from the mansion house of Clifton every morn- 
ing, to the back road gate, where she sat upon her horse 
awaiting me, with a little basket, containing our dinner, 
hanging on the horn of the saddle. I used to be lifted to 
the saddle before her, and while her left arm encircled me, 
with her right hand she would guide her horse around the 
base of the cliff, and take the winding bridle-path that led 
up the Recky Ridge, upon which -lay her sterile farm of 
(lardpargain. Oh! I remember how she used to ride from 
field to field, making investigations, and giving directions t@ 
her rude workmen—and with what deference the rough mu 
were used to address her—hat in hand. I remember, tov, 
our cold dinners, taken under the shade of an elm tree, 
whose lowst branches sheltered a fine spring---the bead 


MR&. CLIFTON OF HARDBARGAIN,. 5Y 


waters of that very torrent, which, in course of time and 
space, swells into the mighty river I told you of. Oh! my 
noble mother! how few would have displayed her courage 
and fortitude !—not one in a million but would have rather 
sat down in the luxurious ease and abundance of Clifton, 
where she had a long welcome for as long as she shculd 
choose to stay—rather than have dared the toil and hard- 
ship that she cndured. The land was at last cleared up, the 
farim laid off in order, and brought under the best possible 
cultivation. A comfortable house was built, and my mother 
moved into it to receive my father when he should come © 
home, at the disbanding of his company. He came at last— 
it was a happy time—and well I remember how my mother’s 
young, but stern and weather-beaten face, bloomed ana 
softened again into youth and beauty and womanhood, by her 
soldier’s side. But, ah! he had survived all the horrible 
perils and sufferings by cold, hunger, and the foe, endured 
by our army during that long and terrible struggle, and re 
turned safe, to die in a time of peace—to die at home, where 
every care and comfort surrounded him. Yes, he came home 
in the winter of —82. Towards the spring, he took a slight 
cold—it was neglected as of little account—it settled upon 
his lungs—before winter came again, he died, and the first 
snow that fell, fell upon his grave. My honored mother was 
a strong-minded woman. After what I have told you, you 
know that she was! She loved him as only the strong can 
love. She suffered as only the strong can suffer. She rose 
above that death-blow to her happiness as only the strong 
ean rise. But she has never been the same woman since. 
Wher a few years had passed, and her son’s welfare demanded 
her care, she aroused every faculty of her mind and body, 
for the ‘purpose of insuring’ his greatest good. Even at 
‘hat epoch of time, there was no reason to suppose that 1 
should inherit the Clifton estate. My uncle was then in the 
prime of manhood, had married his second wife, and by no 
means despaired of male issue. My dear mother taxed soul, 
body and estate to the utmost, to defray my expenses at 
college, during the seven years of my resiuence there. It 
was also to her persevering exertions, as well as to the late 
military services of my deceased father, that I owed my com- 
aission in the army. They say that mzsfortunes never come 


60 MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 


single. Good fortune certainly ne-er does, if I may judge 
of vur own experience of both. When I had left college, 
the heaviest tax was raised from our income, and when I ob- 
tained a commission in the army, my year’s pay more than 
doubled the annual income from the proceeds of the farm. 
At this time also my mother received a legacy from an aged 
and distant relative, which enabled her te steck her farm 
well, and furnish her house comfortably. #urthermore, my 
uncle having lost his third wife, and at last given up all 
thoughts of a son of his own, began to take quite a paternal 
terest in me—insisting, when off duty, I should spend al] 
my time with him—and finding neither myself nor my mo- 
ther disposed to forego each other’s society, would have per- 
suaded the latter to take up her abode under his roof. But 
that arrangement did not suit my mother. She, who in hen 
young womanhood had too high a spirit for dependence- 
preferring to give herself to severest toil and privation, rather 
than live in easy luxury under another’s roof—vcould not in 
her sterr maturity be bribed to give up her well-earned in- 
dependence. Nor indeed, under any circumstances, should 
T have consented to the plan. We compromised the matter 
by my agreeing to spend half the time of furlough at Clifton. 
This was the more congenial to my feelings, as my cousin 
Carolyn had now left school permanently. As for my uncle, 
he consoled himself for his disappointment in not getting my 
mother’s society at Clifton, by marrying a fourth wife.” 

“<T am impressed with the idea that your mother is a very 
proud woman, Clifton!” said Frank, taking advantage of 
Cxptain Clifton’s first thoughtful pause. 

** No, no,” he answered, slowly, as in half reverie, * no— 
she is not what the world calls proud—she is no conservator 
of rank, as Tam. She is the only frue republican I know 
in this whole Republic. Sprung, herself, from an ancient, 
uoble, and haughty race, she yet honors talent and virtue, 
when met with in the lowest ranks, as much—nay, I verily 
believe, more, than when found in the highest circles, where - 
it is natural they should be more frequently seen.” 

——‘‘ But here we ere, and you shall judge for yourself,” 
concluded Captain Clifton, as he opened a gate admitting 
them into a shady yard, in the midst of which stood the house. 
They alighted at the gate and gave their horses into the cbarge 


MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 61] 


ef a negro boy, avd walked on to the house. It was a plain 
oblong stone building, of two stories, with a deep, shady 
piazza, running the whole length of the front. It was divided 
through the centre by a wide passage way, the front and 
Lack doors of which were both open and drawing a fine draft 
of air, and from which opened four large airy rooms, two on 
aside. ‘hey stepped up on the piazza, and were met at the 
front door by a neatly clothed negro girl, who admitted them 
iuto the passage, and opening a door on the right hand next 
the front, showed them into a cool, breezy, but plainly fur- 
nished parlor; the walls and ceiling bemg simply white- 
washed, and the floor bare but highly polished with wax, as 
was the summer custom of the country at that day. The 
fire-place was open and filled with green bushes. The win- 
dow-curtains, and the lounge, and easy chair covers, were 
all of chintz. There was a reality of substantial and perma- 
nent comfort about the place, that Frank thought he had 
never seen elsewhere. And when Clifton invited him to be 
seated, and he rested himself in one of those coo] arm-chairs 
in that shaded room, he declared that a feeling of at-home- 
ativeness came over him, such as he had never experienced 
since he left his own mother’s house, and never hoped to feel 
again until he should have a house of his own. The negro 
girl whom Clifton addressed as Hennie, then left the reom to 
summon her mistress, and shortly after the lady of the house 
entered. 

Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was now about fifty years 
of age—tall, and inclining to en bon point, but not more sc 
than well became her years. Her complexion was dark, and 
her hair and eyes black. Her features were strongly marked 
and commanding, indicative of great strength of will and 
indomitable firmness of purpose, all moderated, however, by 
the expression of her countenance, which was at once com- 
posed and gracious. Her manner was marked by unaffected 
dignity and courtesy—her dress was of very plain dark silk, 
made high to the throat, and with sleeves coming down to 
the wrists, a small ruff set closely around her neck, fastened 
with a mourning pin. Her only head-dress was her own 
biack hair, which, though slightly mingled with gray, was 
worn uncovered. Indeed, cap or turban upon that ncble 
head would have looked impertinent. She advanced into the 

4 


6% MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN 


room and greeted her son with affection, and welcomed M:. 
Fairfax with courtesy, though her words were so few, and 
her manner was so calm, as to seem cool. Frank thought 
her a very noble looking woman, though somewhat stiff and 
coid. Indeed, all strangers, and superficial observers, 1] ought 
her cold and proud. Never was a greater misapprehension 
of character—never did a larger or more generous heart live 
in the bosom of woman—albeit, its pulsations were of the 
ealmest and most regular character. She sat down and en- 
tered into an easy conversation with her son and his friend, 
inquiring into the particulars of their journey, and making 
comments as they were related. Once during the recital her 
cheek almost imperceptibly changed. It was at the telling of 
the hair-breadth eseape at the brink of the Devil’s Staircase, 
but upon that she made no observation whatever. She rang 
a little hand-bell, which was answered by the entrance of 
Hennie. She took a bunch of keys from her pocket, and 
giving them to the girl, directed her to bring refreshments. 
Hennie left the room, but soon returned bearing a large 
waiter with home-made wine, cake, and a basket of fine 
peaches and pears. While they regaled themselves upon 
these luxuries, she inquired after the health and well-being 
of the family of White Cliffs, and having received satisfactory 
answers, turned to Mr. Fairfax and hoped that he was suffi- © 
ciently well pleased with their neighborhood to favor it with 
a Jong sojourn. Frank assured her that he should never 
grow weary of the delights of his visit, and should conclude 
it only when compelled to do so, and then with great regret. 
The conversation then became of more general interest. The 
weather, the condition of the roads, the health of the neigh- 
borhood, &c., were discussed. And then the discourse tuck 
a higher tone, and the agricultural and political condition 
and prospects of the whole country, and the great probability 
of another speedy war with Great Britain, were debated. 
And Mr. Fairfax wondered at the extent of information, the 
strong grasp of mind, and the depth and justness of thought, 
displayed by this recluse lady upon subjects apparently sa 
fureign tu her daily experience, 

They made quite a long morning visit, and before their 
departure, Captain Clifton took an opportunity-—while Mr. 
Fairfax was walking around the room and staring at some 


MRS. CLIFTON, OF HARDEARGAIN. 64 





old family pictures, among which hung a portrait by 
of Oliver Cromwell, as Lo rd Protector of England-—to draw 
his mother aside, Sh say to her— 

‘¢ Madam, | have a proposition to make to you, or a favor 
to ask-——as it may turn out.” 

“© What is it, my son?” gravely inquired the ladv. 

‘You heard Mr. Fairfax speak of the young mountain-gir] 
whom we met just before the storm, and who kindly con- 
ducted us to her grandfather’s cabin ?”” 

rei e8.”” 

“It is of her that I would speak, and for her that I would 
enlist your sympathy and protection—” 

“Go on, | attend, my son.” 

“You have given me some credit for msight into character 
If my judgment is worthy of your consideration, this young 
girl is deserving of your kindest offices.” 

‘¢ Does she deserve them ?” 

“¢ Madam, she impressed me as being a child of high moral 
and mental endowments, and the trying experience of one 

night proved the truth of that impression.” 

“é Does she need my good offices ?” 

“Mother! with the finest intellectual capacities, she is 
nearly destitute of all opportunities of intellectual culture. 
That is bad—but not so deplorable as what follows. Kate 
Kavanagh—that is her name—is far removed from all of her 
own sex. Her young brother, her only protector, is absent 
from home from earliest dawn till, late at night. Her only 
companion is an old ‘nan, an habitual drunkard, subject to 
frequent and furious fits of manza-a-potu. Her case, upon 
my showing, may not be so exigent. But if you had seen 
her as I did, it would seem so. Her brother being best ac- 
quainted with the circumstances, is the best judge in the 
premises, and is very anxious upon his sister’s account, and 
wishes to get her a place at service.” 

“ But if she is a girl of so excellent a nature as you have 
supposed, will she leave her aged relative ?” 

“Not willingly, certainly —but—I wish the oy portunity 
of improving her condition afforded her, indeed, 1 promised 
her brother Carl that it should be presented.” 

“I know Carl Kavanagh—--he worked for me during the 


§4 MRS CLIFTON, OF HARDBARGAIN. 


last year. J formed a good opinion o/ him. If his sister is 
equal to him she must be a meritorious girl.” 

«© She is very superior to him, madam.” 

The lady was mistress of great promptitude and decision 
of action. With her eyes fixed upon the ground she re- 
fleeted for a few moments, then lifting them, said— 

“ Write to your friend Carl Kavanagh—” 

“ Not my friend, dear madain, an’ it please you!” haughtily 
interrupted her son. 

A slight shade of disapproval or of displeasure clouded the 
lady’s brow for a moment, and she said— 

‘Write then to your dependent, Carl Kavanagh, and let 
him know that I am willing to receive his sister into my own 
iervice on trial—and that he may bring her hither as soon 
as is convenient.” 

‘¢ Thank you, dearest madam, I will write to-day, and send a 
messenger with the letter. Jam really pleased and grateful 
or this kindness,” said Archer Clifton, pressing his lips to 
the cheek she offered to his salute. 

The young men soon after took leave, being engaged to 
dine that day at home at White Cliffs. 

‘¢ Clifton!” said Mr Fairfax, as they rode along, * excuse 
me for telling you freely how highly I honor your mother. 
Yes! you may stare! /—the irreverent—the rash said— 
excuse me for telling you how highly I honor your mother— 
for, by my faith, she is a lady whom to praise is presump- 
tion! But, my dear Clifton, how is it that she resembles so 
closely that old portrait of Oliver Cromwell, which hangs, 
besides, between two family portraits. It is not possible you 
claim descent from him ?” 

‘My mother does, by the female line. I do not think I 
have much of his nature. In his time I should have been a 
royalist. My mother venerates his character very highly.” 

«¢ By my soul! she is like him enough in feature.” 

“Yes, and in many points of character, she is strikingly 
like him.” 

In conversation such as this the friends reached White 
Cliffs, and Mr. Fairfax retired to his chamber to dress for 
dinner, and Captain Clifton entered the library for the pur: 
pese of writing a letter to Carl Kavanagh. 


Go 


THE TIDE OF FATE, 3 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE TIDE OF FATE. 


There is a tide in the affairs of man, 
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.—SHAKSPEARE 


“ There is a tide in the affairs of ‘woman,’ 
Which, taken at the flood, leads—’’? God knows where.—-Byr dn. 


CaptTaIn Clifton had written to Carl Kavanagh, inforraing 
him of the situation he had procured for the sister of the 
latter, at Hardbargain. And within this letter he had in- 
closed a longer one, to Kate, filled with good counsels and 
urgent reasons why she should yield to the wishes o? her 
brother, and accept the place offered to her. After hav- 
ing dispatched these letters by a boy, who left White Uliffs 
that afternoon, on horseback, he delivered himself up to the 
delights of Miss Clifton’s society, forgetting all about. the 
mountain-girl, until the next day, when, being seated in the 
library, his messenger returned, entered his presence, and 
handed him a packet. It was a letter from Carl Kavanagh, 
inclosing one from Kate. He read Carl’s epistle first. It 
began by expressing much gratitude_to his benefactor, for 
his kindness in having procured a situation for his sister, and 
went on by expressing much sorrow that he could not prevail 
upon Kate, either by entreaties or threats, to accept it, and 
unbounded indignation at what he called the girl’s wicked 
stubbornness. The letter closed by reiterating the thanks 
of the writer. Captain Oliften held the letter open in his 
hand, and lifting his head, fell into deep thought. It was 
strange how much this little matter depressed him. Account 
for it, any philosopher that can. Some proud people have a 
pioclivity to patronage—Captain Clifton was very proud, 
and perhaps he was piqued at being prevented playing the 
patron. Perhaps it was really disappointed benevolence. 
Only it is certain that Archer Clifton did not possess that 
quality to an immoderate degree—and having once done his 
duty of charity, would be likely to content himself with any 


66 THE TIDE OF FATE. 


result. Perchance he felt a deeper interest in the rugged 
little mountaineer than he would have acknowledged, even 
to himself. Perhaps it was prescience—the shadow of com- 
ing events. Be that as it may, Archer Clifton walked up 
and down the floor in silent thought, occasionally broken by a 
slight sigh. It was wonderful how much the knowledge that 
he should not have this child at home in his mother’s housé 
vexed his soul. | 

At length he recollected Kate’s own letter, yet unopened. 
But of what avail to read it! It would certainly be the 
counterpart of Carl’s. He opened it. It was not, however. 
In the first place, the paper was perfectly clean; and in the 
second, the writing, spelling, and style, were rather. better. 
She acknowledged the goodness of Captain Clifton, in taking 
thought of her humble wants—expressed regret that she 
could not avail herself of his kindness—could net Jeave her 
grandfather, who needed her services, and subscribed herself 
Uaptain Clifton’s obliged and grateful servant. It was very . 
nich like Carl’s, after all. But here is a postscript. What 
more can she have to say, after what she has said, thought 
Clifton, as he turned to it. It read thus— 


«<P, S.—-I hope Captain Clifton will pardon me, if he thinks 
that I am doing wrong—but it has come into my head, that 
as (‘aptain Clifton is about to marry, and reside in future at 
White Cliffs—and as Mrs. Clifton of Hardbargain, will then 
be quite alone—and as she is not so young, or active, or 
able to ride about her plantation, overseeing her field hands 
as formerly—perhaps she will be thinking of getting a farm- 
manager—if so, will Captain Clifton kindly remember my 
brother Carl, and speak a favorable word for him to the lady 
of Hardbargain, who already knows and trusts kim? If 
Carl gets a situation as overseer, I can keep house for him, 
and we can both take care of our grandfather. Indeed I am 
afraid Captain Clifton will be justly angry with me for this 
liberty.” 

s¢ What a letter !”” exclaimed Archer Clifton, as his face 
alternately lighted up with satisfaction, or became clouded 
with thought. ‘ What a letter for a rustic girl of fourteen! 
Yet characteristic of Aer and of her situation. Showing the 
germs of zeflection, forethought, courage and promptitude, 


om 


THE TIDE OF FATE. 6 


the gifts of nature, mingled with that frankness bordering 
upon presumption, which belongs to total ignorance of the 
world. To dare to speak familiarly of our domestic affairs! 
But yet how naively she deprecates my displeasure, at what 
she feels may be received as presumption.” 

So deeply did Captain Clifton study Kate and her letter; 
Kate’s remarkable countenance, with its breadth of brow and 
gentleness of eyes, haunted him. 

He was a man of prompt decision and action—so, having 
once admitted the idea that his mother needed an overseer, 
he exclaimed— 

«Yus my mother must be relieved from her arduous oc- 
cupation—unbefitting a lady of her rank, and especially of 
her age. Why could I not think of that before? Why 
should I never have seen the necessity, until Catherine held 
it up before me? Yes—my mother must have a manager on 
her farm, and Carl Kavanagh shall be the man. 1 will pay 
his salary myself.”? And he rung the bell, ordered his horse, 
and in less than fifteen minutes was on his way to Hard- 
pargain. 3 

As he rode up to the house, he met a girl with a pail on 
her head, going to the spring, and inquired of her where her 
mistress was to be found. He was told, * down in the wheat 
field.” So, turning his horse’s head a little to the left of the 
house, he rode down the slope of the hill, to a wide harvest 
field, where he found Mrs. Clifton, seated on her mule, super- 
intending the operations of some fifteen or twenty laborers, 
who were employed in stacking wheat. He rode up to his 
mother’s side, alighted, and held out his hand, saymg— 

«¢ How-do-you-do, to-day, madam? LBusily engaged as 
ever, I see, mother.” : 

‘« How-do-you-do, Archer? Yes, very busy.” 

While Captain Cliftor was revolving in his mind the best 
way of introducing the object of his visit, which he had 
reason to believe would be distasteful to the energetic, inde- 
pendent lady—-she quite unconsciously anticipated his in- 
tention, and relieved him from his embarrassment, by say- 
ing— 

A The heat is extremely oppressive, and I begin to find 
this business too much for me, Archer. This continuing out 


in the fields day after day. and all day long, throughout 


68 THE TIDE OF FATE 


this burning weather, begins te tell, even upon my constitu 
tion.” 

Archer Clifton looked at his mother and noticed for the 
first tiuie a slight but certain change in her countenaneg 
invisible, perhaps, to an indifferent glance, but seeming te 
the eye of affection, fearfully like the very earliest premoni< 
tory symptoms of decay. That look pierced him to the 
heart. The fainter sound of her voice, too, had vaguely 
suggested failing strength—it fell upon his ear like a pro- 
phecy, a warning, a knell. He realized then, for the first 
time, that his mother was mortal—was growing old—that 
some day he should lose her. He felt then, for the first time, 
how much Ae—a man—had rested on this good mother—and 
his heart was troubled within him. And yet it was all caused 
only by a transient weariness in the look of her face, and a 
faintness in the tone of her voice. But more than all things 
else on earth—more deeply—though less ardently—than his 
own fair expectant bride—did Archer Clifton love his mo- 
ther! It had even been said, some years before, by one who 
knew him best, that Clifton could never love any woman 
with the full force of his nature unless in qualities of mind 
and heart she resembled his mother. But of course, Captain 
Clifton had disproved that prophecy by adoring his cousin, 
the haughty and beautiful Miss Clifton. This is a digression 
—to return— 

As the new pang of fear for his mother’s health sped 
through his heart, Archer Clifton took her hand—he had a 
singularly sweet and persuasive voice and manner, when 
moved by his affections, and said— 

‘‘There is no necessity for it, dear mother. Surely, the 
motive that prompted you when I was a lad, and when this 
farm was our only prospect, has long ceased to operate.” 

“TI know it, Archer. Fcr some years past this personal 
superintendence of the fields has been more a matter of 
habit, than a matter of necessity. If I could find a good 
manager I might try one.” 

“What do you think of Carl Kavanagh in that capacity, 
mother ?”” 

“Qarl! I never thought of him at all. He has never 
managed a plantation.” 

“ But yet he has been a farm laborer many years--has a 


THE TIDE OF FATE. 6% 


practival knowledge of agriculture, and is, besides, a man of 
more intelligence than is usually to be found in his class.” 

«“ Yes—he is,” said the lady, thoughtfully. 

“ He is also a man of excellent moral character, and faulte 
less habits—qualities not too frequently met with among 
tnose of his grade.” 

“ True—most true—but yet he is young, and has had u0 
experience in overseeing.” 

“ And never will have, dear madam, unless some oné gives 
him the opportunity of making the trial. And as for his 
youth, mother—why lis youth is positively an advantage—- 
for with his practical knowledge, intelligence and honesty, 
he will be free from the conceit and crotchets of an old 
manager, and will the more readily fall into your system.” 

“There is something in that,” said the lady. ‘ And now, 
Archer, you will remain and dine witi me to-day. And re- 
member, that when this week is out, the next week belongs 
to me. Ycu must bring your friend with you when you 
come. Where did you leave him 2?’ 

“Plaving battledore with Zuleime. But, dear mother, 
about this Cari Kavanagh—I hope you will consider the plan 
favorably, and try him.” 

‘J will think of it, Archer, because you propose it, if for 
no other reason. And now the horn is blowing for the hands 
to go to dinner, and my task for the day is relieved. Let 
us return to the house.” 

They turned their animals’ heads, and rode up the ascent, 
and entered the shady yard. Then the lady alighted from her 
mule, gathered up her riding skirt, and leaning on the arm 
of her son, entered the house. A plain but substantial din- 
ner was soon served. Archer Clifton enjoyed his mother’s 
plain meals more than the most luxurious dinners—not hut 
that he had a taste for luxury—what man has not ?—but that 
‘here was a home comfort about his mother’s table, that gave 
him appetite and spirit. And then, after dinner, he could 
go and stretch himself upon the best lounge in that large, 
shady, breezy parlor, with a book, and read or doze until she 
' had attended to the putting away of her things, and had 
locked up her pantries. Then she would come and sit in the 
rockiig-chair by his side, while he could stretch himself at 
ease, in any ungainly attitude he pleased, and fee! what a 


7 


T THE TIDE OF FATE. 


refreshing thing it was to throw off his dignity in the pre- 
sence of the only one with whom he could do so-—his own 
familiar mother. Not but that he honored—nay, revered her 
-—but that he enjoyed only in her house, that deep, full 
seuse of home freedom, which not orly her son—but to a 
vertain degree all others felt, who possessed the privilege of 
the lady’s friendship. 

This afternoon, then, he was lying at his ease on the cool 
lounge between the two front windows, which were drawing 
strong drafts of air, and flapping the festooned curtains lazily. 
He had thrown himself out at full length upon the lounge, 
in the most delightfully degagé attitude, albeit it was some- 
what angular and awkward—his head being thrown back 
over the end of the lounge, his hands clasped above his fore- 
head, and his elbows very prominent, one foot, minus a slip- 
per, hoisted upon the window-sill, and the other slippered 
foot dangling on the carpet. But the picturesque beauty of 
his dark, handsome face, atoned for all the rest. His mother 
sat in an easy-chair near him, with her feet upon a footstool, 
and a workstand by her side. She was engaged in stitching 
wristbands—for that vigorous woman never required a lounge 
in the day-time—but though she never took one, yet she 
never blained the indulgence of that habit in others for which 
she herself felt no inclination. She was the most liberal and 
benevolent of all human beings, in every act of her daily life. 
She was happy in seeing others comfortable around her. She 
was ever pleased to see them enjoying those relaxations which 
her own strong nature did not need. Indeed, courage with- 
out asperity, fortitude without indurancy, strength without 
hardness, self-denial without sternness, power without arro- 
gance, formed the peculiar excellence of her character. No 
wonder that her son revered her. No wonder it had been 
said of him, that he never could love a woman with all the 
power of his nature, unless in mental and moral endowments 
she resembled his mother. As they talked together this 
vfternoon, the hours slipped away till late in the evening, 
vefore the image of the beautiful Carolyn had power to draw 
him from the fete @ téte. During the afternoon he had pre- 
vailed with his mother to receive Carl Kavanagh as her overs 
eccr—an’ to have the comfortable log-cabin which had been 


THE TIDE OF FATE. 71 


occupied by the first prcprietor of the soil, prepared for the 
reception of the family. 

When Archer Clifton at length arose to take his leave, 
he pressed his mother to his heart with so much fondness 
and power, that the quict, calm lady laughed, a little, low, 
jolly laugh, and jested about Carolyn’s jealousy—even of hia 
mother. 


Captain Clifton returned to White Cliffs, and gave him-~ 
self up for the rest of the evening, to the charms of Carolyn’s 
conversation. 

The next day was one of festivity. Mrs. Cilfton, of Hard- 
bargain, caine over to dine at White Cliffs, and to meet a 
large party of the neighboring gentry. The day after that, 
the whole party dined and spent the evening at Hardbargain 
--and this was the commencement of a series of neighbor- 
hood entertainments in honor of the approaching marriage, 
which were kept up for several weeks. The wedding was 
to come off in the course of a month—the present delay being 
owing to this circumstance: old Mr. Clifton had sent to 
England, by the good ship Rockbridge, Captain Cater, an 
extensive order, including a splendid outfit for the bride; 
an they were now awaiting to hear of the the arrival of the 
Rockbridge at Norfolk. In all the excitement of social 
enjoyment, Captain Clifton had found time to ride to the 
mountain hut, and arrange with Carl Kavanagh to come and 
take the situation of overseer at Hardbargain. He agreed 
to pay the latter a liberal salary, and to provide a comfortable 
house for his family. One thing surprised and annoyed 
him. Kate, who had written so freely, frankly, almost pre- 
sumptuously to him—received him with the old cold shyness 
and reserve—not even expressing the least gratitude for the 
kindness he had shown in getting the situation fur her brcther, 
or the trouble he had condescended to take in commng per- 
sonally to inform them of it. He agreed with Carl, that the 
latter, with his grandfather and sister, should remove to 
Hardbargain in the course of the week—and on his own part 
he promised to have the ]og-house prepared for their re- 
ception. He shook hands with the eld man and Carl cr 
parting, “ut when he offered the same civility te Kate, she 


72 THE TIDE CF FATE, 


turned pale and trembled, and when he took her hand he 
found it cold. 

‘‘ I do not think you are\well, my dear girl—your moun- 
tain air does not engender chills, does it?”’ he asked, pressing 
the cold fingers. 

She raised her eyes one brief instant to his, and dropped 
them quickly again, while her pale cheek and brow became 
suffused with crimson, and her hand that he held in his own 
throbbed like a heart. 

‘‘ When we get you to the plantation you will be better, 
my dear girl,” said Clifton, kindly, shaking her hand and 
letting it go. 

Captain Clifton rode away full of thought—speculating 
more upon Catherine’s reserve than became a gentleman of 
his station and importance. What was it to him that a rustic 
girl was too sly to express in person, her thanks for a faver 
received, even though she had ‘ screwed her courage to the 
sticking place” to write to him and solicit it? Many people, 
more conversant with the world than Catherine, can write 
that which they never can bring their lips to say. Besides 
it was no matter—what was that lowly maiden to him, the 
heir of Clifton, and the prospective husband of the highest 
and haughtiest lady in the land? Yes—what to him except 
an object of his high patronage could be that girl of—not 
only “humble parentage,’ but indubitably low birth? He 
rode on dissatisfied, he knew not wherefore, with her and 
hinself. 

As for Catherine, she stood—lost—where he had left her 
—lost to the consciousness of her grandfather’s and of Carl’s 
presence—with her eyes fixed upon the ground, blaming ber- 
self for her awkwardness and seeming ingratitude ; wonder- 
ing if he blamed her too; wondering why it was that when 
she saw him enter she grew cold and trembled so ; and when 
he spoke to her in that gentle tone, and looked at her with 
that gentle gaze—her whole nature shrank away in fear and 
trepidation—and though she would have given the world fos 
the ability to express her gratitude and regard, all power of 
attering a grateful word or of lifting a grateful glance to his 
face, deserted, and left her pale and trembling before the 
mian wnom she had no cause to fear, and every reason to 
crust. Catherine stood with her mind dcep in this problem, 


THE TIDE OF FATE. tS 


until the harsh voice of Cari startled her, saying, in rasping 
toues— 

“Well! are you going to stand there burrowing your 
2yes in the ground all day? A pretty way you have behaved! 
Please goodness, you’ve got no more manners than a dumb 
Lrute. I take my oath [am ashamed of you! Now there 
was Captain Clifton, a gentleman of so high rank, conde- 

s:ending to come here and tell us himself of the place he 
iid got for us, even after your unmannerly refusal of that 
first place—and here were you with not one word of thanks 
to give—no! please Heaven, not so much as one civil look! 
I wonder what he’ll think of you?’ 

«< What, indeed ?”’ repeated Catherine, very aoe 

But Carl scarcely recognized her voice. It was no longer 
the childish treble—it was the deep, full, melodious voice of 
rich womanhood. 

* Why, the kindest thought he can have of you, will be to 
think you are a fool—that is all.” 

“ Carl, I was in fear of him.” 

“in fear of him! In fear of Archer Clifton! A man 
whom all the country knows to be of the highest honor— 
and one to whom even /, cautious as J am, could trust you 

with, to go from one end of the world to the other!” 

&T know that, Carl—I know he is a gentleman of honor, 
but—but—I tremble before him, and have not courage to 
lift my eyes—” 

“But that is so confoundedly ridiculous, now! why are 
you afraid of him ?” 

Kate shook her head and waved her hand in that quick, 
short manner which was peculiar to her, and turned away— 
repeating in her own heart the question—Yes, why, why, 
way?” 

Whether the maiden found an answer to her question or 
not, remained a secret to Carl; this was the first and last 
conversation they ever held on the subject; and whatever 
phenomena the opening heart of the maiden revealed to her- 
self, were carefully shrouded away from the eyes of all. 





How beautiful was Carolyn Clifton! So fair, so purely, 
so divinely fair, so radiant, so refined, so stately! How fit 


74 THE TIDE OF FATE. 


a consort for the proud Archer Clifton: How his heart 
swelled with admiration and pride as he gazed upon her 
queenly form—and how it glowed to think that in a very 
few days that fair and stately lady, who never deigned to own 
a passion, whose love he only guessed by her proud exaction 
of exclusive service, who scarcely condescended to extend her 
snowy hand to his salute—would be his own, his own, his wife, 
his property, his other self—whose form he might press to 
his bosom in the fullest freedom of possession! And as he 
sat by her side and held her hand, and gazed upon her inac- 
cessible, delightful beauty; oh! how slowly, slowly, to his 
impatient, burning, throbbing heart—how slowly, dragged 
the days and hours. 

Well—oh very well would it have been for Archer Clifton, 
could he have rent his gaze from his magnetic idol a moment, 
and caught a certain pair of evil eyes upon him. . Their 
baleful glare might have shed upon his path some light to sae 
the pitfalls in his way. 


THE OLD MAN AND UGHIS BRIDE. 75 


CHAPTER V. 


There is a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough hew them as we will.—SHAKSPEARE. 


CarL KAVANAGH and his sister were settled in the low 
gabin on the farm of Hardbargain. Carl, as an old acquaint- 
ance of the mistress, and a late laborer on the plantation, fell 
readily into his new business of oversceing it. Catherine 
began to busy herself in the management of her new and 
very comfortable home. Their cabin contained a sitting- 
room, kitchen, and two chambers. Mrs. Clifton had gratified 
her own kindly and benevolent disposition by adding several 
plain articles of furniture to the small stock possessed by the 
poor family. She had, besides, given Catherine a set of half- 
worn, white dimity curtains, and a pair of coarse, home-made, 
white counterpanes. These gave an air of neatness, ap- 
proaching—lI had almost said refinement to the sitting-room, 
and two little bed-rooms. Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, 
was not addicted to taking sudden likings—indeed, though a 
lady of perfect frankness, benevolence and liberality of judg- 
ment, she was cool and prudent—yet, notwithstanding this 
_her kindest affections were at once attracted towards Kate 
It is true she had been prepared to think well of the child 
from an intimate knowledge of her brother Carl’s honesty 
and intelligence, but at the first sight of Catherine, the noble 
countenance.of the mountain-girl riveted her esteem. There 
are some faces which we know at a giance cannot belong to 
other than a fine, high-toned character. And such a coun- 
tenance was that of Catherine. And it won upon the lady 
every day, as no merely beautiful face could ever have done. 
For hers was a brow— 


“‘ Where every god did seem to set his seal to give the worla assurance 
or 


a peerless woman. Often Mrs. Clifton invited Catherine to 
bring her work and sit with her through the afternoon, and 


76 THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 


seldom did she let the girl return without placing in her hand 
some book just suitable to. her very age, and the stage of 
progress of her mind. And oh! did not the heart of the 
maiden kindle and glow with love and admiration for the 
noble lady, who, without one particle of pride, or the least 
pretension to condescension—condescended so much. And so 
Citherine grew to understand and appreciate Mrs. Clifton, 
nud to look upon her with a feeling amounting almost to 
worship. How happy were those afternoons spent with her 
in the cool and breezy parlor. How deeply grateful was 
pce for all her benefits—how anxious to prove her grati- 
g for her benefactress. But Kate was 
very shy, and her love only spoke in the stealthy look of af- 
fection fixed upon the lady, and withdrawn with a deeply 
blushing cheek if discovered. But by these tokens sure did 
Mrs. Clifton know the sweetness and the tenderness, the 
modesty and the sincerity of the maiden’s hidden heart. “And 
all this time was Catherine wishing for the ability to tell her 
friend how much she thanked and loved her. One afternoon 
she mustered up the courage to tell the lady that she should 
like to read to her any time that it would be agreeable ; also, 
that she had some skill in doing up laces and such things, 
and that she should be happy if she could assist Mrs. Clif- 
ton in such matters. Mrs. Clifton placed her hand affee- 
tionately on Catherine’s head, and declined all her offers of 
service except that which related to the reading—which she 
accepted—hoping thereby to improve her protégé in many 
ways—to direct her choice of books, to correct her elocution, 
and to awaken her understanding of what she read by ques- 
tions and comments. So they ‘began a course of historical 
realing with Rollin’s Ancient History. And that which 
this excellent lady commenced as a duty of kindness soon 
became a matter of daily recreation. It was indeed a rare 
intellectual pleasure to arouse, cultivate and hold communion 
with a fresh, vigorous, original enthusiastic mind like that 
of Catherine. And those afternoons were almost as happy 
for the lady as for her protégé—happier for Catherine they 
could not have been. Once, the shy girl was entirely car- 
ried out of herself and her reverie by the following circum- 
stunce: The lady had inadvertently let fall that she was a 
wescendant of Oliver Cromwell, when Kate, hurried beyond 





THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 77 


her consciousness, clasped her hand and gazed fervently up 
in her face, exclaiming— 

“‘ Descended from Oliver Cromwell! Descended from 
Oliver Cromwell, that friend of man ? that friend of freedom? 
Oh! it is no wonder, lady, that you are so noble. so supe 
rivr to all the world!” 

«« My Catherine,” said the lady, calmly withdrawing her 
nand * You know too little—far too little of the world, to 
judge how I stand in comparison to others. And what know 
you of Oliver Cromwell? Our reading has scarcely reached 
the invasion of Britain by the Romans.” 

“Oh, lady! lady! lady!” said Kate, warmly, being not 
yet recovered from her trance—*‘ lady—Carl and I had not 
many books, so we read what we had over and over again! 
And one of the books we read the most was the life of Oliver 
Cromwell!” 

“You are generally so shy, Catherine, that it is a blind 
work in me to direct your studies, not knowing what you 
have read and what you have not.” 

Yes—very delightful to both were these seasons, and very 
strong was the affection beginning to cement between the 
rady and the maiden. ‘There was only one thing that dis- 
curbed Catherine in the perfect enjoyment of these after- 
noons. When Archer Clifton would surprise them by 
suddenly entering the room, and throwing himself into 
an arm-chair or upon a sofa, her heart would stand still, 
and her whole frame tremble with an agitation as impossible 
to comprehend as to conquer. And yet much as _ his 
arrival disturbed her, his departure failed to make her 
happy. On the contrary, it left a strange sadness and yearn- 
ing she could not shake off. But then ‘these things were of 
rare occurrence. Captain Clifton very seldom found time to 
visit his mother—he was contented to know that she had a 
companion ;—and as for Kate, he never thought of her at 
all—she was provided for and forgotten. Body, soul, and 
spirit were taken up—absorbed in the contemplation of his 
promised bride, and in the anticipation of her possession. 
Catherine knew he was soon to be married, but what of that? 
She was a child, with no knowledge at her tender years to 
understand her own heart, and no skill to define its first de- 
velopmerts. 

5 


18 |. THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 


At White Cliffs “‘all went merry as a marriage bell.’ 
The “ Rockbridge’ was at length telegraphed at Norfolk. 
A letter with an invoice was received by Mr. Clifton, whe 
immediately dispatched a special messenger to reccive his 
valuable portion of the cargo. The wedding-day was fixed 
for that day week, and great preparations were on foot. 
Tke gentry of the neighboring counties were invited. The 
mansion-house was “swept and garnished” from garret to 
cellar. Frank and Zuleime were daily rehearsing their parts 
as bridesmaid and groomsman, which Frank declared to be 
only an apprenticeship to the business of enacting bride and 
groom. Some city guests from Richmond had arrived by 
particular invitation, four or five days before the expected 
wedding. ast of all came the wagon with the boxes from 
Norfolk. They were opened in the hall—such treasure of 
splendid attire, and such sets of jewelry! And, above all, 
such a trousseau for the bride—conspicuous in which was the 
bridal dress and veil—the bridal dress and train of richest 
white brocade heavily embroidered with silver, after the gor- 
geous fashion of that time—the bridal veil of finest lace- 
the orange flower wreath of pearls and emeralds—the pear] 
embroidered gloves and slippers—the pearl and silver mounted 
fan, and all complete in correspondence. And richer still 
was a ball-dress of blue silver-embroidered brocade, with its 
elegant coiffure of ostrich feathers, the sight of which Zuleime 
declared was enough to precipitate any girl into matrimony. 

Every one was too happy, too busy and too self-important 
tu notice the deathly hue of Georgia’s cheek, far less to de- 
tect the fitful glare of the well-guarded eye. Every one but 
her husband, who, leaving his daughters and their maids to 
unpack the boxes, followed her into her own chamber, saying, 
as he fondly laid his hand upon her shoulder— 

s¢ My darling doesn’t seem to be merry.” 

She shrank—shuddered from his touch, exclaiming, almost 
snriuly— 

*+ Leave me!” 

® Leave you, my dear !—my child .—why leave you?” he 
asked, passing his hand gently around her shoulders. 

“‘ Leave me. leave me!” she cried, sharply, casting off 
the arm and springing back—her cheek blanched, her teeth 
wuapping, her eyes sparkling fire, more like a terrified wolf 


THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 79 


than a woman, “have I not told you never, never to come 
near me in my dark hour?” 

‘¢ But why should my cherished pet have dark hours ?”’ he 
persisted, approaching her. . 
i ** Keep off! keep off! old man, you know not what you 

ra) 199 

“Yes, ’m old—I know I’m old—I wish I wasn’t, for I 
love you, my darling. Yes, I love you more tenderly and 
less selfishly than if I was younger. I love you entirely— 
altogether— your little dark face—your little fiery ways— 
your little outbursts of temper that no one sees. but me, who 
look upon it with indulgent eyes. Would a young man love 
you so tenderly, Georgia ?” 

“‘ Driveller! you make me loathe you! — ‘My little fiery 
ways.’ ‘My little outbursts of temper,’ forsooth! How 
little do you understand me! You sting my soul to frenzy 
with your dotage, and then twaddle about liking my Jitile 
outburs!s of temper,’ forsooth.” . 

“Dotave! Yes! I really do suppose you consider it 
dotage |” 

“Yes! drivelling! idiotic! imbecile dotage!” 
_ © Ves! I do suppose you think it is! T am too old for you, 
Georgia—I know it, alas! too well, now that it is too late— 
and yet you did not raise the least objection to becoming my 
wife, Georgia.” 

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Obdjectioa’ I was but 
fifteen years of age when you bribed me to your arms with a 
set of jewels, and a gold mounted work-box! I was a child, 
delighted with glittering toys! and fond, yes! very fond of 
the grandfatherly old man that poured them into my lap! 
Did that child-fondness deceive you ?”’ 

“It did, it did! You were very fond of me when you 
were achild! Would to God I could have spell-bound you 
to that age, so you never could have grown older! Oh! I 
could find it in heart to shame my manhovud, to shame my 
gray hairs and weep! I should not have married you, Geor- 
gia, child! I should not have sacrificed you to my selfish 
love—yet, no! It was not selfish love: I wished your 
greatest good. I wished to surround you for life with all the 
means and appliances of happiness. I wished to lavish 
wealth upon y-u—ay, wealth of gold, and wealth of affee- 


80 THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 


tion, too: I wished to give you a sumptuous home, splendid 
apparel, costly jewels, carriages, servants—all those things 
which women value so much, and scheme, and plot, and en- 
deavor for so perseveringly! I wished to give them all tu 
my darling, before she should have time to feel the need of 
them !” 

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!” bitterly laughed the gil. “Oh! 
do you know what women value more than gold and jewels, 
and dress, and carriages, and horses, and servants !—I’ll tell 
you—the ungalled, unfettered heart’s freedom !” 

“T know it! Oh! Iknowit! My love has destroyed 
aed happiness. Oh, Georgia! did you never see a beautiful 

ird, and long to have it for your own, only to caress and 
pamper and pet it? Oh, Georgia! my child, my pet, my 
bird! that was the reason I wanted you! I wanted to cherish, 
and fondle, and make you happy !” 

“ Ah-h! And did you never see such a bird as you spoke 
of, in spite of all the petting, and pampering, and fondlings, 
beat out its weary life against its prison bars and die Y” 

“Don’t die, Georgia! Don’t die! Hope! Alas! I 
wished only to make you happy—I have failed! I have 
made you miserable!” 

“< ¢ Miserable, ruined! despairing! desperate!” she cried, 
wildly wringing her hands. 

“‘ Nay, not despairing, Georgia! I am an old man, as you 
justly said—gquite an old man. I have not very long to live, 
and when I die, Georgia, you will still be a very young we- 
man. Bethink you, you are scarce seventeen—in ten years 
more you will be but twenty-seven, and is it even likely that I 
shall live so long as that? No! And after my heart is 
cold, and my head is laid low, Georgia will be a beautiful 
young widow—ay, and with a rich jointure, too! I shall 
take care of that!” 

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! pathetic! I tell you, that if you 
were to dic to-morrow, my life is not the less ruincd—de- 
spairing!”” bitterly exclaimed the young woman. 

“ Nay, but that cannot be, Georgia. Ruined? Despair- 
ing? What! at seventeen years of age? Nonsense, my 
love! Nothing but crime can make the youthful despair! 
Nonsense, iny child! You are hysterical!” he said, moving 
towards her with outstretched arms 


THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 8} 


“Dotard! driveller!” she cried, turnirg fiercely upon 
him, with eyes blazing with scorn and malignity. « Jmbecile! 
Will you leave me to myself ?” 

The old gentleman turned away, walked several times 
slowly up and down the floor, and finally saying— 

“Yes, | know Iam a dotard! I know it, and I grow 
ashamed of dotage—” clapped his hat upon his head and 
walked out. 

Bitterly did the old man rue his folly, yet, alas! he knew 
but half the cause of that ingrate and wretched woman’s 
fierce outbreaks of temper. 

She followed his retreating form, with a glaring of mingled 
rage and fear, gnawing her white lips, while she muttered, in 
a low, fierce tone— 

“1 could tear my heart out! I could bite my tongue off, 
for thus betraying me! Shall I ever have power to chain 
and guide the tiger in me? But he with his doting, and they 
with their dalliance, goad me to extremity? But,” she ex 
claimed, clenching her fist, setting her teeth, and glaring, 
while all her countenance darkened with rage and anguish— 
¢ But, before they shall MARRY under my very eyes, and live 
here, maddening my soul and senses, day and night, by the 
view of their love and joy, I will pull down ruin on the heads 
of all! Yes, although myself should be the first to fall !” 
She paused in silent thought some time, then rising, said, 
“ Down, tiger heart! Down! crouch! Be smooth, brow! 
Be smiling, lip! Be tender, eyes! Be soft. voice! And 
now to go and pacify the old man, before his vexation betrays - 
me to the others. Ah! it is well they have never witnessed 
my excitement! Come! in time I shall learn to curb wild 
impulses, and only spring upon my prey when time and place 
is fit!” 

Soft, smooth, fascinating, seductive, she glided from her 
chamber out into the upper piazza, where the old man’s slow 
and heavy footfall was heard—she glided after him, and with 
an air of sweet, familiar, childish freedom, she raised his arm, 
and putting her beautiful head under it, drew his hand 
around her neck and over her bosom, and looking up plead 
ingly, simply, into his benevolent face, murmured, merely— 

“Tam so sorry Mr. Clifton!” 


89 THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE 


«Never mind' never mind, my dear!” said the old or 
tleman, stooping and kissing her brow. 

“Oh, but Lam! so sorry!” 

“You, child! Do you think I mind your little petu- 
lance ?” 

“Oh! you are good, you are good. Indeed, ’m quite 
anworthy of you!” she whispered softly, pressing her head 
against his bosom, and clinging close. 

“ You, darling!” cried the old man, stroking her curls in 
delight. 

«‘T am such an irritable, petulant child! I am sure no one 
would have patience with me but you—that is the reason I 
love you so!” 

- © You do love me then?’ gazing fondly in her witching 
face. 

“Oh, dearly! dearly! look in my eyes and see if I 
don’t!” f 
“Yes! I know you do, my pet! And I love you 
entirely !” ; 

“Ah! how can you then! I have so many faults! 

“T love your little faults, and all! Come! Brighten 
ap! Never mind! I love to see my darling bright and 
cheerful.” 

‘Ah! how can I, when I remember my fit of ill 
temper !” 

“Say no more about it, my love! That’s the reason why 
[love you' For those very little gnats of temper! They are 
followed by such a sweet re-action! and then my child is so 
frank, so ingenuous in her little penitence !” 

“Ah! But then I am such a spoiled child! And 
always was! Father spoiled me. And now you spoil me 
worse than ever !” 

“« My sweet! you can’t be spoiled! you are so ingenuous! 
But now tell me, what vexed my little girl this evening? 
Come, let me hear?’ asked the old man, caressing the 
syren. 
ie Well! now it was this!’ I thought you loved Carolyn 
and Zuleime better than me!” replied the artful woman, 
gazing half-reproachfully, half-pleadingly up méto his smiling 
face. 

“ Love Carolyn and Zuleime better than you! Why you 


199 


THE OLD MAN AND HIS BRIDE. 83 


jealous little witch!’ exclaimed the old man in rapture. 
“ Love them more than you! Why, I have to pray Hea- 
ven’s pardon daily, for net loving them a hundredth part as 
much !—kiss me!” 

Georgia nerved her loathing heart to give the demanded 
kiss, and then went and joined the party in the parlor, as 
beautiful, smooth, seductive, dangerous as ever; while the 
old man walked up and down the piazza, smiling to nimself 
and saying— 

“She is a child—nothing but a child!—a sweet, willful, 
witching child !” 

Alas! little recking of the household treachery, the houses 
hold wreck that ‘ child” was preparing! 


84 THE RUPTURED TIE. 


CHAPTER Vt. 


THE RUPTURED TIE. 


Alas! they had been friends in youth, 
But whispering tongues can poison truth; 
And constancy lives in realms above, 
And life is thorny, and youth is vain, 
And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness on the brain 


Wuat ruin a single spark of fire may spread, if carelessly 
or designedly dropped amid combustible or inflammable 
material. : 

What desolation a single word may cause, if thoughtlessly 
or intentionally let fall into a passionate, impetuous heart. 

The three scenes I am about to describe, took place very 
nearly as they are related. 

But first a few words of explanation. 

I feel that I have scarcely done justice to the character 
of Carolyn Clifton, in presenting her only by that cold and 
frosty crust of pride, which was but the superficial covering 
of a high-spirited, honorable nature. Her manners were cold 
and haughty—almost scornful and arrogant—it is but too 
true. And most people, her family included, supposed her 
to be destitute of sensibility. Perhaps she was lacking in 
warmth of affection for her immediate domestic circle. Her 
whole heart, with all its deep, profound, untold, unguessed 
devotion, was given to Archer Clifton. And while secretly 
bestowing upon him her entire, undivided love—she openly 
exacted a full, unshared return—an exclusive worship. 

In truth, in her proud, secret heart, she was a little jealous 
of Clifton’s affection for his mother! She did not love her 
father so devotedly! -why should Clifton worship his mo- 
ther sot ‘To this jealousy she had never given breath, of 
course—indeed, to her own passionate love, she had never 
yet given word—preferring, in her high toned, maiden pride, 


THE RUPTURED TIE. 85 


to leave it to be mferred. She had never even Jocked her 
jealousy, yet Mrs. Clifton, with the fine instinct of a woman 
and a mother, guessed it, and in her presence, skillfully 
elujed all demonstrations of affection from her son. And so 
well was the proud, exacting spirit of Miss Clifton known in 
her own family, that even the sprightly and mischievous out- 
law, Zuleime, dared take no childish liberty with her sister’s 
betrothed. Thus it happened that Frank Fairfax’s unlucky 
jest had deeply offended the arrogant lady, the more cspe~ 
cially as in that day, and in that neighborhood, the term 
“ mountain-girl,”” was too often the mildest name for an evil 
woman.—This fact, of course, Frank was not acquainted 
with. And, therefore it was, that he could not understand 
Carl Kavanagh’s excessive anxiety to send his young sister 
off the mountain ; and could not in the least comprehend the 
intense indignation of Miss Clifton, and the difficulty Arcner 
Clifton had in restoring her good humor. Even now, Caro- 
lyn Clifton had not forgotten the circumstance. And truth 
to tell, she was not well pleased at the continued interest 
displayed by Captain Clifton for his protégé, in bringing her 
and her family upon his mother’s plantation. But she was 
too proud again to allude to the subject. Carolyn Clifton 
had never known a care or a contradiction in her life. Her 
heart was a sound, strong, high, proud thing, and therefore, 
very like to break itself without fear, full tilt against the first 
impediment that opposed it. She was, besides, like all women 
of her fair complexion and fine tempered nerves—“ a dis- 
cerner of spirits.” And this quick, delicate, and sure per= 
ception never failed her, except when she was agitated and 
blinded by inward passion. Thus, perhaps, quite uncon- 
sciously, she read the heart of her betrothed—and knew it 
better than he did himself—and thus, perhaps, involuntarily, 
sLe afterwards acted on that knowledge. 

At all events, there was quite enough combustible material 
on hand for a single spark to ignite it and spread a conflu: 
gration. — 

And the spark—and many sparks were not wanting. <A 
thoughtless jest of Frank’s—a slight word dropped by 
Georgia at exactly the right, or rather the wrong time and 
place—and the whole neighborhood of R County 
vere agog with gossip. And Captain Clifton and his pro- 





86 THE RUPTURED TIRE. 


tégé, were the subjects. Some, right in the face of his well- 
known engagement to Miss Clifton, did not hesitate to say 
that she, his protégé, was a beautiful girl, whom he intended 
to educate and marry, and that his republican mother was 
highly in favor of the plan. Others told how tastefully the 
overseer’s house had been furnished and adorned, and—- 
without the slightest foundation in truth—how many hours a 
day Captain Clifton now spent with his interesting pupil. 
The suspicious and malignant circulated a still darker tale, 
and wondered how long it would last, and how it would all 
end. And then they denounced Captain Clifton, blamed his ~ 
mother, and pitied Miss Clifton! And all this time, while 
the whole county was ringing with various and contradictory 
reports, the persons most concerned knew nothing about it. 

Until the day before the wedding, it was suddenly 
brought to the knowledge of both parties, in the following 
manner :— 

The company assembled at Clifton, consisting of old Mr. 
Clifton’s brother-in-law and sister, Judge and Mrs. Cabell, 
of Richmond, with their three daughters and son, Frank 
Fairfax, Zuleime, and Captain Clifton, had gone over to dine 
by previous engagement with Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. 
Carolyn Clifton had been compelled, by a slight headache, 
to remain at home. And Georgia had chosen to stay to keep 
her company. _ The two ladies sat in the dressing-room of 
Miss Clifton. Carolyn was silent and abstracted, yet her 
countenance betrayed more of inward joy than she suspected. 
A great contrast was her fair, placid face, to that of Georgia, 
dark, and traversed by spasms of pain-like clouds hurling 
past a stormy sky. But if Carolyn lifted her fair lashes a 
moment, instantly that dark face cleared, ere its expression 
could be detected. At length she ventured, in a sweet tone, 
to say— 

“‘ Carolyn, my dear, to morrow is your wedding day. And 
-—but—there is something which you ought to know before- 
hand, and which for weeks past I have keen trying to gain 
courage to tell you.” 

“Well, madam?” asked Miss Clifton, slowly lifting her 
snowy lids. 

‘“‘T should—that is, I might expose myself to the resent- 
ment of all your family by telling you.” 


THE RUPTURED TIE. 87 


‘¢Then you had best not tell me, madam.” 

«And yet you ought to be informed, and must. | 
sbould never forgive a friend for keeping such a secret from 
me.” 

A vague fear and tremor seized upon Carolyn Clifton, ané 
kept her silent. The dark lady went on— 

“1 think the honor, the happiness, even the tranquillity 
of your married life, depends upon your previous knowledge 
of this circumstance.” 

“‘ Madam—the honor, happiness, and tranquillity of my 
married life pass into the keeping of my husband, Captain 
Clifton, and in him I have the utmost confidence,” remarked 
Carolyn, coldly and proudly, though, alas !—not truly. 

_ Heaven forbid that I should unnecessarily mar that con- 
fidence! But, my love, you will be sure to hear it, when 
too late, and from less friendly lips than mine!” 

«Will it please you, then, madam, to speak out frankly 
and honestly, and let us know what it is,” said Carolyn, 
scornfully, at the same time that her heart was rising with 
- emotion. 

‘Ts it possible you do not guess ?”” 

“ T do not take the trouble to do so, Mrs. Clifton.” 

«¢ Ah! you have always treated me with scorn and hauteur, 
Miss Clifton. Yet that, alas! does not relieve me of the 
painful duty of putting you on your guard. In a word, then, 
do you understand the nature of the relations subsisting 
between Captain Clifton and the sister of his mother’s over- 
seer ?” 

The brow of Carolyn Clifton flushed crimson—but she 
answered, coldly— 

« Madam, I believe that young person has been the object 
of Captain Clifton’s benevolence.” 

«Ah! I believe so too' His benevolence is certainly in- 
disputable, and his honor should be above suspicion!” ex- 
claimed Georgia, fervently. 

“ Madam—zt is!” coldly replied Miss Clifton. 

“ Yes—and yet, Carolyn, my love, a poor and beautiful 
young maiden cannot continue to be the reeipient of a hand- 
some young officer’s beneficence with credit to herself, honor 
to him, or peace or safety to his wife !” 


88 THE RUPTURED TIE. 


“Is she so very beautiful?’ was the question sur , «ed 
from the haughty girl. 

“‘ Passing beautiful, I think, Carolyn, and this it is that 
makes the country gentlemen jest so about the matter. They 
give a far different motive than benevolence to the kindness 
of Captain Clifton to his lovely charge. J know that they 
do him gross injustice! But this thing should not go an. It 
is a dangerous relation—dangerous to Archer’s own fidelity, 
dangerous to your peace, and most dangerous of all, to the 
poor girl’s reputation. I advise you to speak to Archer. J 
would do so myself, but it is too delicate a matter for me to 
speak to a young gentleman about. Now in these palmy 
days of courtship, he may listen to you as he never would, 
perhaps, afterwards, and you will be able to prevail with him 
to send this dangerous young beauty, his protégé, away. 
Yes! and you may tell Archer that J advise this, for the 
good of all parties. Tell him that the whole neighborhood 
is ringing with gossip that may become slander. Tell him 
that 1 say the parties most concerned in this rumor, or in 
any rumor, will be ever the last to hear it. Tell him that I, 
his friend, Georgia, venture to do him this service, informing 
him through you. Let there be no concealments. Let all 
be open candor. JI did feel afraid, when I began to tell you 
this—but now it is out, I feel relieved—I have more 
courage.” 

“Madam!” said Carolyn, more haughtily than before— 
‘‘ Captain Clifton is quite capable of directing his own cop- 
duct! And if he were not, I should never resign to him the 
future control of mine! And, farthermore, madam!” she 
added, sarcastically, “I too highly honor the man about to 
become my husband—I have too much self-respect and deli- 
cacy, to inquire into the nature of Captain Clifton’s indi- 
vidual and private amusements, whether they relate to 
hounds, horses, or beggar girls! I leave such investigations 
to the daughter of the sign-painter!” and with an aix 
of the greatest possible scorn and arrogance’ she arose, and 
left the room. Yet under that proud, disdainful bearing, a 
thousand scorpions, of doubt and jealousy, maddened her 
soul. She went at once into her own room, and having 
locked the door, that no rash intruder should look upon her 
weakness, gave herself up to the anguish of her emotions— 





THE RIPTURED TIE. 89 


Low pacing up and down the floor, wringing her hands in 
distraction—now throwing herself, face downward, upon the 
bed, in despair. And yet she had no confidence in Mrs, 
Clifton’s honesty of purpose either 


In the meantime, the party assembled at Hardbargain 
were enjoying themselves and the hospitalities of their hostess, 
to the fullest extent. 

The late dinner was over; the ladies were lounging about 
in arm-chairs, or on sofas, in the breezy parlor—dozing, 
reading, or chatting in low tones, all serenely enjoying that 
pleasant feeling of home freedom and repose, into which Mrs. 
Clifton ever charmed her guests. 

The gentlemen had left their wine, and in parties of two 
and three were strolling about the shady yard, o1 out 
through the fields and orchards, to cool their heads, previous 
to joining the ladies at the tea-table. 

Archer Clifton, with his cousin, Major Charles Cabell, and 
Frank Fairfax, took the wooded path leading down the South 
side of the ridge to a fine spring in the hollow. They came 
to a log cabin, half hidden by surrounding and overhanging 
elms—and literally covered with climbing and creeping vines 
Before the door sat a girl, spinning on a little wheel, who, at 
the first glimpse of strangers, instantly arose, and taking up 
her wheel, retired into the house. Captain Clifton left his 
companions, and going up to the door, called, saying— 

‘Catherine, my good girl, bring me a gourd here.” 

Kate Kavanagh came, and with her eyes fixed upon the 
ground, and her face suffused with a deep blush, handed the 
required article, and instantly disappeared within. 

«‘ By all the angels, what a fine face!” exclaimed Major 
Cabell, gazing after her. 

Archer Clifton sho; a quick, piercing glance at the speaker, 
who, meeting it full as he turned, laughed, exclaiming, as if 
& new discovery had been made 

“Oh! Ay! Soh! you are there, are you? So then, 
this is the mountain-beauty, the hidden treasure of Archer 
Clifton; that has set all the country ladies agog w th scandal, 
and all the country gentlemen mad with envy ?” 
The het blood rushed to Clifton’s brow. 


90 THE RUPTURED TIE. 


“Oh! now, don’t be iealous! Don’t be alarmed! Your 
treasure is safe from me—though, by all the ‘queens of cht 
valry, hers is a noble face—a face to bleed and die for! 
None of your pretty lily and rose baby beauties that may be 
seen by hundreds anywhere—but a noble girl, fit for a mons 
arch’s love and counsellor!” 

In an instant Archer Clifton strode up and stood with 
bended brow and folded arms before him; and said, in a low, 
deep, stern tone of concentrated passion— 

“You are my relative, friend, guest! Your three-fold 
claim upon my forbearance should protect you from any re- 
sentment for words spoken against my honor. But, I charge 
you, retract your words! And if you harbor one single sus- 
picion against that young girl, you are a villain! S’death, 
sir! Has the world come to such a pass, and is the honor 
of Archer Clifton of so little worth, that he cannot protect a 
poor young maiden without injury to her? By Heaven! be 
warned! For if you do but breathe one breath to dim the 
lustre of that girl’s good name—by the good Lord that made 
us good, and the demon that turned us to evil! relative, 
friend and guest as you are, I will slay and drag you to her 
feet to die!” 

So sudden, so mighty—so appalling was this burst of pas- 
sion, that for a moment after it was over, Cabell and Fairfax 
stood as if transfixed with astonishment. Then Cabell, in 
the frankest way in the world, held out his hand, exclaim- 
ing— 

“T like that! D—dif I don’t! Come, Clifton—I was 
wrong, forgive me! give me your hand! By my soul, T like 
a man that will stand up for—there! by all that’s fatal, I 
had liked to have tripped again !” 

‘‘ Understand me, sir,” said Archer Clifton, sternly. ‘You 
know me to be on the eve of marriage with our cousin. She 
is my liege Jady, and never for one instant in thought, word 
or deed, has my allegiance swerved from her service. And 
more, gentlemen, both! <A single word touching the fair 
fame of her—of Catherine, I mean—touches me home.” 

They were here overtaken by two or three other gentle 
men, and the conversation took another and less perilous 
turn, as they wandered down towards the mineral spring. 
After slaking their thirst, the party divided. Major Cabell 


THE RUPTURED TIE. 91 


jemed the three latest comers, and Clifton and Fairfax turned 
towards the farm-house. 

«You seem to be moody this evening, Archer,” said 
Frank, after they had pursued their way for some time in 
silence. 

«¢ Yes—that foolish jest of Cabell’s has annoyed ue. Tt 
is villamous! It is diabolical! Such light words, in which 
a young girl’s fair fame is laughed and jested away, may be 
thoughtless, but they should be pumished with death !” 

“ That’s a harsh sentence !” 

<¢ A just one!” 

<¢ You feel this bitterly !”” 

“Tpo. For her name has been used! Frank! you be- 
lieve that if a word of disrespect were to be breathed by any 
man against my mother, I would lay that man dead at my 
feet without an instant’s grace ?” 

“Yes! I thoroughly believe that you would send such an 
one to his last account in a great hurry.” 

«¢ And if any one were but to /ook an insult to Catherine, 
it would rouse all the ferocity of the demon in me to over- 
throw and trample him to death !” 

«¢¢ All this I steadfastly believe,’ as the catechism says 
about total depravity !” 

«And, Frank! you, yourself have sometimes spoken flip- 
pantly of my regard for that girl—never so insultingly as 
~ Cabell did just now, else you would not now possess my 
esteem and friendship—but you have trifled with the subject. 
Now understand, Frank, that I shall consider it a deep per- 
sonal »ffront in future if you repeat it!” 

«You haven’t heard me joke to you about Kate for a long 
time.” 

«¢ No—I certainly have not.” 

«¢ No—for be hanged if the matter is not getting far too 
serious for jesting !” 

«¢ What do you mean ?” 

«Archer! Have you never heard it said that those whom 
it concerns first to be made acquainted with an injurious re- 
port are usually the ast to hear it, and when they are tnno- 
sent, they are the more exposed for bezng innocent, because 
they never suspect the slander, and never guard against it?” 

‘©In Heaven's name, what do you mean ?” 


92 THE RUPTURED TIE. 


“This. Cabell’s jest was but the echo of the whole county 
talk. Ihave been asked, I suppose, twenty times, by twenty 
different young men, to tell them all about our adventure 
upon the mountain.” 

“That was because you first of all represented it as an 
adventure.” 

“] confess it! In shame and confusion I confess it— but 
then many times I am also asked what is the precise nature 
of the relations subsisting between yourself and this girl ?” 

BIND, NO 17 . 

«“ Yes, I tell you!” 

“No! no one dares to question that!” 

“But they do, I tell you! Ay, and answer their own 
qnestions in a manner that reflects very little honor upon the 
parties !” 

“¢ Would God I had never seen the girl! Would God I 
had never brought her here! I would give my right hand 
rather than evil should befall her! But wuo is it that dares 
slander her? Tell me! Give me some name! Let me 
have SOME one to make an example of!” 

“‘ Nay, Clifton! you .can’t make an example of women and 
children !”? said Frank, evasively. 

“ By Heaven, sir, they have husbands and fathers, who 
shall be held accountable for the license of tongue they allow 
their wives and daughters !” 

‘¢Nay, now, Archer! This is a mere matter of gossip, 
that will die out, if you are discreet !” 

“To dare to talk of her! They never looked upon her 
face' Else they never could associate the thought of evil 
with that noble brow, those thoughtful eyes, and serious lips! 
To slander her!” 

“Nay, nay—it is not slander; only what I am afraid 
should become such. It is only fun—joke—” 

‘<< 'To dare to joke of her !” 

“<«¢ Her!’ Verily, Clifton, any one to hear you breathe 
‘her? with your full soul’s volume poured into the little 
word, would think there was but one ‘fer’ in the world! 
Arclay, you take a very strange interest in that yirl. Are 
you sure that you are not in love with her ?” 

“In -ve with her! Nonsense—she is a child '” 


THE RUPTURED TIE. 93 


«¢ Well then, are you sure you should not be in love with 
her, if she were a woman 2” 

* Ridiculous! She is a low-born girl !” 

“Oh Iforgot' I beg pardon! You demonstrated that 
to me before.” 

‘«« And, besides, sir, please to remember that all my love 
and faith are due to my cousin, Miss Clifton; and that she 
has my whole heart! I love, admire, honor, my beautiful 
betrothed bride—nor for her proud sake will I brook that 
any one should think it possible that I could even in thought 
fail in full loyalty to my liege lady! But, Frank' my soul’s 
dear brother! as I tell you everything, I will tell you this! 
that I feel the very deepest interest in Catherine’s welfare! 
If you ask me why—lI tell you I do not know! It surprises 
and confounds myself! But from the first moment I looked 
upon her noble face, I felt that interest stir within my deep- 
est soul. And it has never since ceased !” 

«¢ [| swear you are enamored of her !” 

‘“‘ Preposterous, Frank! you make me angry! It is a 
very different thing from being enamored of her, let me tell 
you! There is my beautiful, but cold and scornful bride, up 
at Clifton! Well, I am the most patient of all adoring 
slaves! I wait upon her sovereign eyes all day long! I 
am proud to submit to her whims—to do her lightest bid- 
ding, and pick up her lap-dog—or to obey her severest 
command, and exile myself from her gracious presence all 
day long! But now observe the difference! I feel a deep, 
strong, strange interest in Kate. I cannot account for it. 
I feel a sort of unratified right of property in her. I wish 
to do her good. But I wish that all the good she may ever 
possess in the world, may come from only me! and that for all 
good things with which I cannot supply her, she may suffer 
the want rather than owe their possession to another!. Very 
like Jove, is it not? But I wish to control her destiny! 1 
wish to have her in my power !—7n all honor, however! It 
galls me to think that I have no right of authority or guar- 
dianship over her! I ardently desire such a right! I long 
to have the disposal-of her person and fate! I crave with a 
frantic craving, to have more than a father’s—more than a 
husband’s—more than a master’s right over her! I would to 


Goi she were born mine—my own—body, soul and spirit! 
6 


94 THE RUPTURED TIE. 


My own to use or abuse—to crown or kill, as I listed !” 
exclaimed Clifton, passionately, while his cheeks and very lips 
were white and dry, and his eyes burned with a fierce, con- 
suming, inward fire. And forgetting all things real, he felt 
as in a vision, a girl’s spirit swoop down upon his bosom, and 
a dream voice murmur in his ear—‘‘ Oh! if it will give you 
one instant’s joy to press me strongly to your heart—crush me 
to death in the fold, and my soul will exhale in rapture to 
Heaven.” The fervid vision came and passed like lightning, 
and Clifton roused himself from reverie, with a smile and a 
sneer, saying—‘ Very like love, all that! is it not ?” 

But as Frank did not reply, and as they had now arrived 
at the gate leading into the yard, the conversation ceased. 

The early tea-table was set out under the shade of the 
great oaks, and the ladies were walking about, taking the 
evoning air in the yard. As supper was only waiting the 
arrival of Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax, it was now speedily 
served. | 

After tea was over, the carriages were all brought round. 
and the company took leave of Mrs. Clifton, and departed. 

Captain Clifton and Mr. Fairfax were the last to leave. 
They mounted their horses and took the brid!c-path down 
the mountain-side. This separated them from the rest of 
their party, who went by the road. They did not, however, 
converse. Frank was thoughtful, and Clifton himself buried 
in a deep reverie. 

It was quite early when they arrived at White Cliffs; and 
the remainder of the party had not yet arrived. Mr. Fairfax 
joined Mrs. Clifton in the garden, and Archer Clifton sought 
his lady-love, where he was informed he would find her, 
namely, in the Summer saloon. He threw down his hat and 
entered hurriedly, intending to surprise from her a hasty kiss. 
Carolyn was standing looking out of the window upon the 
rich sunset scene—the last sun that would set upon her 
maiden life, perhaps, she thought. On seeing Clifton she 
moved away, and retreated to the work-table at which she 
seated herself. Clifton approached, and with an air of gal- 
lantry, half serious, half playful, kneeled upon one knee 
and kissed her hand. She drew it coldly away—but that 
was the custom of the * proud ladie,” and did not surprise 
her lover Ile arose and drew a chair to her side and seated 


THE RUPTURED TIE. 95 


himself, and began to affect an interest in her littlo lady-like 
occupations. Her right hand rested upon a pile of beautifully 
fine linen cambric handkerchiefs—an item in the imported 
trousseau. He laid his hand upon hers, and asked her some 
trivial question about them. 

Now, Carolyn, after a day’s extreme suffering, had almost 
gained a victory over her passion. Her haughtiness had almost 
saved her. Not to one soul in that house—not to Georgia, 
had she betrayed the least sign of the cruel suspicion that 
had nearly maddened her brain. Not for all Clifton—not 
for all the world would she have betrayed her passion to her 
lover—or condescended to admit that she could be jealous 
of him; for she felt that once to accuse him would be to 
impose upon her the necessity of breaking with him. How 
could she, in honor, marry a man to-morrow whom to-day 
she had accused of treachery ?—besides, she was not sure— 
could never be sure of his moral dereliction. And while 
there was a donbt in his favor, she must conquer or 
conceal all suspicion, or, letting escape, must break with 
him, even at this last moment——-must break with him for- 
ever! At least so her high spirit and her pride argued. 
She could not part with him—pride forbade that also.— 
What! the marriage of Miss Clifton of Clifton broken off at 
the last moment, “and all about a mountain-girl? Pah! 
Forbid it, all the shades of all the buried Cliftons! Hearts 
might break, but haughty heads must not be bowed! Bet- 
ter lost peace than lost place! And then she loved him !— 
toved him the deeper for suppressing all signs of love !—and 
she could not bear to lose him! And banish him she must, 
if she should once betray the jealous passion of her heart. 
This mighty motive kept down tbe rising storm. Yet all 
depended upon her vigilant self-control. Should a look, a 
word of suspicion, escape her then, she felt the curbed frenzy 
of her soul would have broken all bounds; even as by the 
smallest fracture in the dyke, the mighty and irresistible sea . 
is let in upon the land, carrying destruction and death before 
it! All depended on her silence. So, to keep her lover 
frem noticing her mood,—or fatally inquiring its cause—and 
to give him employment, she pushed the pil¢ of handkerchiefs 
towards him, saying calmly— 

“‘ Mark them for me ’” 


96 THE RUPTURED TIE. 


Clifton smilingly took them, found the little vial of indeli- 
ple ink, and went to work—himself well pleased to have 
some service to perform for his liege lady, that would, with- 
out disrespect to her, deliver him from the duty of keeping 
tip a running conversation, for which he felt mdisposed. 

She need not have feared that Archer Clifton would ob- 
serve her mood. He himself was too abstracted, too thought- 
ful, to be critical or inquisitive. He was deeply troubled by 
the recollection of the conversations of the afternoon, affect- 
ing Kate Kavanagh. Instead of benefiting, had he really 
wronged that excellent girl ?—darkened the very morning 
of her just opening life with the clouds of suspicion? And 
was even his mother’s protection insufficient to shield her in- 
nocence from such attacks of slander? Yes!—for the fact 
pf his mother’s protection was not even acknowledged. 
Slander shuts its eyes to truth, while it opens its lips to false- 
hood. Should he send her back to the mountain, and expose 
her to all the evils of that life? No, no!—his whole heart 
protested against that course. Yet what to do to save her? 
He could not decide then. He could not even get his own 
consent to consult his mother. What! wound her ear with 
the repetition of such a story? Never! His usual prompti 
tude of decision and action forsook him quite. A ery wag 
in his heart, and be could only repeat to himself her name 
in deep sorrow,—*Oh, Kate! Kate! Kate Kavanagh !” 
until her very name “ Kate Kavanagh,” became the refrain 
of a‘plaintive silent melody! Meantime he pursued his oc. ° 
cupation quite mechanically, marking and laying down, one by 
one, the handkerchiefs, until the whole dozen was complete. 

Carolyn Clifton watched his complete and mournful abstrac- 
tion with increasing suspicion. 

When all the handkerchiefs were marked, he took the 
parcel, and shaking off sad thought, smilingly laid them be- 
fore his lady’s eyes, gayly entreating her to examine his work, 
and reward him with a kindly word if it should please her. 

Miss Clifton took up the parcel, her eyes fell upon the 
topmost handkerchief, and she started violently. She swiftly 
turned it over and looked at the second, and the blood rushed 
to her brow! At the third, and it receded again, leaving 
her pale as death! She hurriedly went through the dozen, 
then springing ta her feet. she hurled the parce] to the fioor, 


THE RUPTURED TIE. | 97 


~and setting her heel upon it, lifted her proud form to its 
loftiest height, and stood, her chest expanded, her head 
thrown back, her cheek kindling, her eyes blazing,—full ! 
full !—yet proudly suppressing all utterance of passion! 
Captain Clifton st rted to his feet, exclaiming— 

“Carolyn, my dear cousin !” 

But spurning the parcel beneath her heel, she turned ims 
periously away, and walked up the room. 

He followed her, repeating— 

“Carolyn, my dearest Carolyn! what is it?” 

Turning and flashing upon him her fierce, imperious eyes, 
she stretched out her arm, and pointed in scornful silence tc 
the handkerchiefs on the floor. 

He went and picked them up to examine them. Oh! 
treacherous absence of mind! Oh! fatal refrain of the 
mental melody! Oh! horror of horrors! Catastrophe of 
catastrophes! Upon every handkerchief was beautifully 
marked—* KatE KAVANAGH.” 

‘“¢ Confirmation strong 


As proof from Holy Writ.” 


Ay, and a great deal stronger, as sight is more convincing 
than faith ' What was to be done? It was in vain to deny 
or attempt to explainit! Yet he must try, even if he should 
make himself ridiculous. Hurling the fatal “* handkerchiefs” 
down with virulence, he sprang to the side of tne outraged 
and indignant beauty ; seized her hand, exclaiming, velie= 

ment] y— 

«¢ My dearest love—pardon! pardon! This is all a mis- 
take !” ! 

Spurning his clasp from her hand, she turned away in 
arrogant silence. 

Dropping upon one knee, he took her hand again, and 
looking up in her face, said, in a voice of entreaty— 

“My Carolyn! this is all a mistake!—the most absurd 
mistake! The effect of the merest absence of mind! The 
most ridiculous thing !” 

« Oh, sir!” she answered, with slow and withering scorn, 
drawing her hand away again, ‘I do not doubt it was a mis- 
take. I never supposed ycu would dare an intentional insult 
to my father’s daughter !” 


- 


98 TIE RUPTURED TIE. 


«But, Carolyn, my dearest cousin, only permit me to exe 
plain—” 

‘© Oh, sir, I entreat you spare me the humiliation of hears 
ing the story!” she sneered, with curling lip. 

“ee But, Carolyn, my dase loved bride! My bride, that 
will be, to-morrow—if you will allow me to tell you all the - 
simple truth—the reason why this young girl’s name ran in 
my head so.’ 

“Oh, sir.” she exclaimed, raising both hands, and turning 
away her head in loathin g— I implore you!—-I most humbly 
beseech you to forbear! Spare me details that might shock 
my—delicacy !” 

“ Carolyn,” he said, gravely and reproachfully rising, and 
taking her hand—* this does not become you.” 

Throwing off his hand, with scorn and indignation, she 
replied— 

“It would less become me, sir, to listen to the history you 
would tell.”? Then subsiding into a mood of contemptuous 
irony, she said, with a sneering smile—* Believe me, sir, I 
feel more disgusted at your bad taste than shocked at your 
sin, or wronged by your bad faith.  mountain-girl! 
Truly, I am humiliated to think so base a rival should have 
moved me—even to contempt. I am dishonored, sir, in that. 
Had your wandering fancy fixed upon one of my cousins— 
one of the elegant Misses Cabell, I might have mourned your 
infidelity, but should have been saved this deep humiliation 
for myself, and this utter contempt for you—but a mountain- 
girl! A coarse, ignorant, ill-bred mountain-girl! Oh-h-A! 
that you should have stooped, or I should have been moved, 
by so low a creature as that! I could bury my head with 
shame !” . 

“Carolyn!” he said, sternly, “ permit me to inform you—” 

“No, sir !”’ she exclaimed, scorn writhing her lips, indig- 
nation bing from her eyes—“ No, str! You shall tell 
ne NOTHING! It would ill-become my mother’s daughter to 

-isten to the revolting history of—your base amour with the 
mountain-girl!” 

Yes, in the bitterness of her passion, she forgot her maiden 
delicacy, and spoke those shameful words to his astonished — 
ears ! 

Miss Clifton!” he replied, severely, folding his arms 


THE RUPTURED TIE. Qi 


and gazing sternly and steadily into her blushing fuce—-for 
she was already blushing for her temerity —until she quailed 
before him—“ Miss Clifton, you mistake my purpose—I have 
no intention, now, to explain anything—the man who would 
condescend to deny so base a crime as you have charged upon 
me—is not too high or pure tocommitit. Therefore, I deign 
to say nothing for myself. But for the admirable girl that 
you have slandered—I will say this: Had a man dared to 
asperse the fair fame of Catherine Kavanagh—though that 
man had been my bosom friend—he should have expiated his 
falsehood with his life:—Had any other woman breathed a 
breath of slander on her—her husband or -her father should 
have atoned for the fault :—For yourself, Miss Clifton—you 
shall retract your words, before ever I shall call you wife!” 

This roused her passion to ungovernable fury. Turning 
ghastly white, while the light seemed to leap from her eyes, 
she exclaimed; in a low, deep, intense tone— 

‘‘ DEATH, sir!. Do you threaten me? Insult me in my 
father’s honse? Leave it! You are unworthy to stand 
upon this floor! Brcone!” . And reaching out her hand, 
she seized the bell cord, and rang a peal that presently 
brought a servant to the dcor. The advent of a third party, - 
though that party was a menial, constrained the lady to re- 
member herself. Miss Clifton was her cold, serene, dignified 
self again. Turning to the servant, she said, haughtily, 
“ Show Captain Clifton to the front door, and bring round 
his horse, instantly. He returns to Hardbargain, to-night.” 
And she bowed to Clifton, and calmly and imperiously walked 
from the room. 

The man stood waiting and bowing. Captain Clifton 
snatched his hat, saying— . 

‘«‘ Let my horse be brought round, without delay, Dandy, 
and tell your master, when he returns, that he shall hear 
from me at Hardbargain.” 

When the man had bowed and retired, Captain Clifton 
passed out through the open leaf of the window, into the 
piazza, and thence down into the lawn, to speak to Frank, 
who was just entering from the garden with Mrs. Clifton on 
his arm. 

Georgia saw at a glance, that her train of gunpowder had 
caught, an the mag>zine had blown up, and her dark, beau- 


100 THE RUPTURED TIE. 


tiful, demoniac, witching face lighted up with a iurid joy for 
one unguarded instant, and then all was self-recollection, 
self-control, and sweet, smooth, serene, alluring glamour. 

Bowing deeply to Mrs. Clifton, he said—- 

“‘ Madam, an unexpected event sends me from Clifton this 
evening. Pray make my adieus to my uncle and cousin, 
And permit me to commend my friend here to your hospi- 
table care until such time as he pleases to become my guest 
at Hardbargain—if, indeed, he will not ride thither with me 
to night,” he added, turning to Frank. 

Fairfax was too surprised to speak. 

Mrs. Clifton, who was not surprised at all, yet affected 
much interest, said, archly— 

“Oh, but we shall see you back very early to-morrow 
morning !” 

‘“T regret to add, madam, that it is not likely,” he said, 
with another bow; then turning to Frank, he asked— 

“ Will you ride with me to-night, Fairfax ?” 

Frank glanced at the lady on his arm, and then looking 
rebukingly at Clifton, begged to be excused. 

“Well, then, you are my guest, Fairfax, and my mother 
has often pressed you to give her a few weeks of your com- 
pany. Join me at Hardbargain as soon as possible—the 
sooner the better. To-morrow even—” 

“ To-morrow!” archly smiled the wily lady. To-morrow, 
I fancy, his attendance and your own will be required Aere. 
Do you forget ?—Well, that is the worst instance of absence 
of mind I ever saw or heard of! A young bridegroom to 
forget, for an instant, his wedding-day! ‘Too bad, even for 
you, the notoriously-absent-minded Archer Clifton !” 

Not wishing to enter into explanations, Captain Clifton 
merely replied with another bow—a most convenient, safe 
and polite manner of answer, since, without lack of courtesy, 
it committed nothing. | 

Then, taking leave of both lady and gentleman, and re- 
paren his invitation to Frank, he turned and went to take 

is horse from the servant that held it, threw himself up into 
the saddle, and, with a parting wave of his hat, rode away at 
full speed. 
: * Clifton looks darkly —what can be the matter?’ asked 
‘rank. 


THE RUETURED TIE. 101 


“Oh, nothing! probably Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, 
has been troubled with some refractory servant, and has sent 
for her son to come up and reduce him to order—or possibly 
there may be some dispute or difficulty in settling the des 
mands of the hired harvest hands. They are often even 
dishonest in their extortions.” 

“‘Deferring to your better judgment, madam, still, I fear 
not! I think such trifles would scarcely have raised so dark 
a thunder-cloud upon Clifton’s brow,” said Frank. 

“Oh, well! At worst it is but some lover’s quarrel with 
his most exacting queen, Carolyn!” playfully replied the 
lady. | 

Frank was not satisfied—he was pained. This most dan- 
gerous dark beauty fascinated and frightened him by turns. 
He had never seen the fiend in her face since that first night, 
and her witching power had almost erased the remembrance 
of it from his mind. Indeed, if he had ever recollected it, it 
' was with wonder and remorse that he should have ever read 
such fearful meaning in a Iady’s frown, and he ascribed it to 
the phantasmagoria of his own fatigued nerves and over- 
excited brain. But now he felt vaguely anxious, suspicious, 
foreboding—he scarce knew wherefore. He had no rea on 
to reply to the lady again, for at the instant she finisied 
speaking, the carriages drove into the yard, bringing the 
company from Hardbargaia, and they walked forward te 
weicome them home. 


102 THE SEVERED HEARTS 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE SEVERED HEARTS. 


Alas! how slight a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love— 
Hearts that the world in vain had tried, 
And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
That stood the storm when waves were rough, 
Yet in a sunny hour fell off, 
Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
When Heaven was all tranguillity! 
A something light as air—a look— 
A word unkind or wrongly taken ; 
Oh, love that tempests never shook, 
A breath—a touch like this hath shaken.—Moors. 


Some hours after the arrival of the company, old Mr, 
Clifton sat alone in his study, examining piles of accounts, 
merchants’, mechanics’, and hired laborers’ bills, that had 
come in as usual upon the first of July, many weeks before, 
yet had not, up to this night, been settled. For many years 
past the financial affairs of the Master of Clifton had been 
falling behindhand. The cause of this was that no planta~ 
tion and plantation house can thoroughly succeed without 
the personal superintendence of an efficient mistress to assist 
the master’s effort. Often, indeed, it happens, that while 
the master himself is engaged in state politics, or off at the 
legislature, or at congress, or on the circuit as a judge of the 
court, or in the metropolis of the state, or of the nation, 
holding some high office under the government—the mistress, 
at home upon the plantation, is the main-spring of all its 
business—superintending—not only the house and house- 
maids, with their multifarious cares and avocations, such as 
a city housewife cannot conceive of, but managing the planta- 
tion also—keeping: the overseer to his duty, adjudging 
equitably all difficulties that may arise between him and the 
slaves under his charge—looking over all the numerous 
accounts, paying debts, and, when necessary, retrenching 


THE SEVERED TDEARTS.. 103 


expenses. Now the Clifton plantation had been singularly 
unfortunate in a series of inefficient mistresses, even before 
it fell in regular succession to the present Mr. Clifton. And 
after that, affairs were worse than ever. His first wife, the 
haughty Miss Gower, the mother of Carolyn, was far too 
great a lady to look after a housekeeper and overseer, and 
her successors had been all young girls, very worthless, ox- 
cept as pets and playthings, and who had, besides, to be 
indulged every year with their winters in Richmond, or in 
Washington—a two-fold evil, as it took the master from his 
plantation and men, and the mistress from her house and 
maids, and laid them, besides, under the heavy expense of 
city hotel living, dressing, dinner-giving, theatres, balls, 
concerts, etc. Once in awhile, as a bridal treat, or at the 
successive “‘ coming out” of daughters, a winter in the me- 
tropolis may be well enough. But when continued year 
after year, through a lifetime, to the total neglect of the 
plantation, the revenues of no ordinary estate will hold out. 
So it followed, that as the master and mistress ceased to 
look after the overseer and the housekeeper, the overseer 
and housekeeper ceased to look after the men and maids, © 
and the men and maids grew careless and indolent in the 
performance of their duties. Thus, as the expenses rose, 
the income fell. And thus, at the present time, old Mr. 
Clifton was almost irredeemably in debt, and all the Clifton 
property, except the land, mortgaged to its full value. The 
mortgage might foreclose at any instant. And at this pre- 
sent moment, the poor old master of great Clifton had not 
the ready money to pay his harvest hands. The extent of 
his liabilities was, however, so little known in the neighbor- 
hood, that his credit was still good, and almost high—and 
the estate of White Cliffs was still considered as one of the 
most prosperous in the county, and the owners still held as 
very enviable people. While old Mr. Clifton sat pondering 
most dismally over his impracticable accounts, the study 
door was suddenly thrown open, and Miss Clifton entered, 
in great excitement, and threw herself into a chair before 
her father, exclaiming— 

<¢ Father, I have been insulted !” 

The old man, never indifferent to his children’s cry—ever 
ready in the midst of Lis own real cares, to hear and sympa- 


104 THE SEVERED HEARTS. 


thize even with their fantastic griefs—looked up from his 
papers in perplexity, inquiring— 

“What is it? What did you say, my child?” 

«<7 have been insulted !—outraged sir !” 

The old man gazed at her in surprise, repeating— 

“<Tnsulted, outraged !? ” 

“Yes, sir! contemned, despised, scorned, insulted, out 
raged, rejected !” 

The old man placed his hands upon the arms of the chair 
and gazed in astonishment, exclaimmg— 

“¢< Insulted!—outraged!’ Whom? You, my daughter 
Miss Clifton! Impossible.” 

“Yes, sir! me, your daughter—Carolyn Clifton!” 

«¢ Who has presumed—who has dared—Y’ 

“‘Uaptain Clifton, sir, ‘has dared!?”? replied the indig 
nant beauty, rising in her excitement. 

The old gentleman stared at her in blank wonder for 4 
minute, and then—taking her hand— 

«Sit down—sit down—sit down—sit down,” he kept re- 
peating, ‘and tell me all about it.” 

Carolyn drank a glass of ice water that stood near her on 
the table, and then, in a cooler manner, told her father ex- 
actly what had passed, and how it had finally ended. 

The old gentleman scratched his snow-white head in vex- 
ation and perplexity, but the winter bloom of his broad, rosy 
face, was neither heightened nor lowered at the hearing of 
the tale. He did not by any means display the indignation 
the offended beauty had expected. 

“Well, sir!” at last she.said, rather haughtily, “‘ what do 
you say to this?” 

He put his arm fondly arvund her waist, and drew her te 
him, saying, caressingly— 

‘‘ You’re a fool, Carolyn! <A vain, jealous little fool, 
that’s all! Nay, now !—no airs with your old father! Ac- 
cording to your own showing, it has been Archer that has 
been ‘ contemned, sate scorned, insulted, outraged, re 
jected !’ and the rest of it—and upon no just grounds, either! 
as I can easily prove to you. Iam very much mortified—- 
deeply humbled, indeed, to hear that my daughter, a high- 
born young maien, should have forgotten her feminine pride 
_ and delicacy, and ~eproached hea lover with an intimacy with 


THE SEVERED HEARTS. 102 


& mountain -girl—a race of women, with very few exceptions 
so low and wretched, that a young lady should ignore thei 
very existence. Oh, my conscience, Carolyn! why do you 
not cover your face, and die with humiliation? I do noi 
wovder a man of such high honor and delicate sensibility as 
Archer Clifton, should have been shocked and disgusted. 
Nay, my child !—no airs with me! No tossing of the head, 
and curling of the lip with me! I am your father. You 
must listen tome. You have done Archer the most out- 
rageous injustice. And your jealousy is as ridiculous as it is 
delicate. In the first place, this girl, though brought up 
on the mountain, comes of respectable, if humble parentage, 
and possesses, by all accounts, a higher toned moral and in- 
tellectual nature than most young ladies are endowed with. 
She is as far removed from vice as my own Carolyn! In the 
secund place, she is the protégé of Mrs. Clifton, as well as 
of Captain Clifton, and enjoys that excellent lady’s esteem 
and friendship, spending half of every day in her company, 
except when visitors are at the house. In the third and last 
place, she is not a beautiful woman, but an ugly child—being 
scarcely fourteen years of age, and having the ugliest face I 
ever saw in my life—at least J think so, though Mrs. Clifton 
guys it is a noble face. It has large features, and is full of 
strength and expression, like a boy’s. There, now, that’s 
yll! Now! what do you think of yourself?” 

During this short explanation, Carolyn’s beautiful counte- 
pance had changed expression as rapidly and as variously as 
during the lay ‘of the minstrel the harp changes and varies 
its notes. At its close she dropped down by the side of the 
old man, and throwing her arms and her head upon his knees, 
in utter weakness and dejection, sobbed— 

‘‘Father! how shall I ever be forgiven ?”’ 

He raised her to his knee, and putting his arm around her 
waist, drew her head upon his bosom, and said— 

‘It is an ugly lover’s quarrel, certainly, my love! And 
Archer Clifton is as proud ag youare! But it must be made 
up! It must be made up! A very ugly quarrel, indeed. 
And on the eve of your marriage, too! But it must be made 
up! It must be made up! Ah, doubtless he will be over 
to-worrow vight! He feels as bad as you do, I'll warrant 


106 THE SEVERED HEARTS 


he does! J’ll warrant he does! J snuuld, I know, if 4 
were he!” 

“¢ Ah, father! no he does not! He wus in the right! 1] 
was in the wrong!” 

“ Yes! you were wrong, Carry! And I hope it will be a 
lesson to you! But that makes no difference in Ais feclings, 
pot a whit! He suffers as much as youdo! Why, when I 
have a difficulty with my poor little pet, Georgia, if she ig 
ever so wrong, and I ever so right, 1 am nevertheless the 
most miserable man alive!” 

‘Ah, father, but there is a great difference—I am not 
Archer’s pet, but.was to be his consort. We—Archer and 
myself, are nearly equal in station, ay, education, disposi- 
tion, and so are more responsible for our conduct towards 
each other!” sighed Carolyn, dropping her head dejectedly 
upon his bosom. 

«Oh, well! now if you are so full of doubts and fears! 
it is but ten o’clock! I will mount my horse, and ride up to 
Hardbargain, and knock the young gentleman up—lI doubt 
if he is asleep !—and bring him back here, to-night !” 

“ Not for the world! Not for ten thousand worlds!” ex 
claimed the proud girl, vehemently. 

« Ali, then I don’t know what to do with you—go to bed, 
and try to sleep, and if you can’t do that, ring for the house- 
keeper, and make her give you some of her nostrums, to put 
you to sleep! And go into a state of non-existence, that 
shall obliterate the time between this and to-morrow morn- 
ing. And to-morrow, Ill warrant Archer will be here to 
breakfast with us, and to beg your pardon for the sins that 
you committed! for that’s the end of all lovers’ quarrels! 
No matter who’s right and who’s wrong—who’s sinned 
against, and who’s sinning, the gentleman has to do the pen- 
ance! There! kiss me, and be off with you!—and hark ye, 
Carolyn! don’t forget to kneel down and pray Heaven to 
give you the grace of a mecker temper !” 

Carolyn Clifton went to her room and retired to bed, to 
heat ler pillow with her feverish head, to wet it with her 
hot tears—to sigh, and groan, and toss, and sob all night. 
This bitter, bitter quarrel, was the first trouble the girl had 
ever had ir all her favored life. And she was impatient 


THE SEVERED HEARTS. 10T 


with it, indignant at it. She was angry with herself for her 
injustice and indelicacy ; angry with Clifton for not forcing 
upon her the explanation she would not consent to receive, 
but which, had she been forced to hear, would have arrested 
the quarrel, and saved this cruel suffering; angry at the te- 
chous night, that lingered so long, keeping her in agonizing 
suspense; angry at the morning, that delayed its coming, 
and bringing her the peace and joy of a reconciliation. And 
sc she tossed, and groaned, and suffered, like one in high 
fever, while the long, long night was slowly, slowly passing 
away. 


In the meantime Captain Clifton had ridden away, not sa 
angry as shocked, repulsed and alienated by the unprece- 
dented behaviour of his lady-love. He disliked all demon- 
strations of emotion, and detested all exhibitions of evil 
passion ina woman. It was the high-bred delicacy and re- 
finement—the queenly placidity—the cool reserve and stately 
dignity of Carolyn Clifton, that had attracted his first admi- 
ration. And though he sometimes gallantly complained of 
her cruelty, he would not have had her manner one degree 
warmer. But now this fair, cool, peerless queen o’er her- 
self and her emotions, had yielded to passions that might 
gcvern a serving-maid—to suspicion, jealousy, and fierce 
anger——had descended to virulent, vituperative abuse! And, 
hencetorth, she was discrowned, and degraded from her pride 
of place. 

He arrived at Hardbargain—gave his horse in charge of 
a servant, and entered the house. 

The candles were just lighted in the parlor, and Mrs. Clif- 
ton and her favorite Kate sat sewing by the work-stand. Ag 
he entered, Kate arose as usual with the intention of with- 
drawing, but he signed to her with his hand, and said in a 
tone of command— 

«« No—stay, Catherine, and once for all give up that habit 
of retiring as soon as myself or any other visitor enters ” 

The young girl returned to her seat and resumed her work 
Then with a sort of spirit of persecution upon him, as one 
would think, he went to the maiden and inquired, impa 
tiently-— 


108 THE SEVERED HEARTS. 


«Why do you always do that? Why do you always rise 
and leave as soon as any one enters the room ?” 

She glanced up at him with those large, shy eyes, and in- 
stantly veiled them again, while the blush deepened on her 
cheek. Her heart—her disobedient, rebellious heart, that 
would not be calm when she bade it—was beating fast against 
her bosom, as it ever beat, when he looked at her, or spoke 
ty her. To have saved her soul alive, she could not have 
put her motive into words, and told him that she ever feared 
her society, or even her presence, might not be as acceptable 
to Mrs. Clifton’s visitors as it was to that kind lady herself. 
She only bowed her head and blushed the deeper that she 
could not answer, and yet deeper still, that she felt him 
gazing on her. He was gazing on her!—gazing down on 
that beautiful, dark auburn hair, rippling and glittering under 
the light of the lamp—on that broad monarchal forehead, on 
those even eyebrows and long eyelashes, dropping fine 
shadows on the glowing cheek—yes! gazing and thinking of 
Major Cabell’s enthusiastic admiration, and wondering why 
all the world did not agree with him in thinking that counte- 
nance grandly beautiful! Yet even while admiring her so 
much, he spoke angrily, and said— 

‘Catherine! You have a second habit even worse than 
the first! Lately you have taken up the practice of not re- 
plying to me when I ask you a question—and when you are 
obliged to raise your eyes to mine, you drop them instantly 
as if mine burnt them. Now I have always disliked and 
suspected eyes that cannot look freely into other eyes!” 

At this the very forehead of the girl burned with a crimson 
flush. Clifton took hold of her hand, which fluttered in his 
own like a frightened bird, and said, in a kinder tone— 

“Come, my child! see now if you can look me hanestly 
in the face, and tell me why you will not talk to me ?” 

But Kate’s distress became so great that Mrs. Clifton jn- 
terposed, and said— 

“ Do, Archer, leave her alone! It dees seem to me, sen, 
that you take a malicious pleasure in tormenting that pocr 
girl because she is so shy! Don’t mind him, Kate! He has 
been a tease ever since he was a boy, when he used to pull 
rhe ears of kittens and puppy dogs. Take up your work, 
ehild, and hurry on with it. And you, Archer! I am as 


ce 


THE SEVERED HEARTS. 109 


much surprised as pleased to see you back here to-night. To 
what am I indebted for the pleasure ?”’ 

«¢ My dear mother, I will tell you after awhile—let me be 
quiet now a little time.” 

And Mrs. Clifton looked up in surprise, and noticed, for 
the first time, how deeply troubled was Archer Clifton’s face. 
After watching him a few minutes as he sat and watched 
Kate, she said, suddenly — 

“Oh! I have a letter for you—arrived by the afternoon 
wail. Henry brought it from the post-office this evening 
after you left. Perhaps it was in quest of that you came, 
and its contents may dispel your uneasiness,” and rising, the 
lady went to the card rack, hanging above the mantle-piece, 
and brought him a letter, which he tore open and read hastily. 
Then starting up, he exclaimed, Good! Good! Most ex- 
ecllent, most opportune !” : 

«What is it, my dear Archer? Iam very glad it gives 
you such satisfaction, at any rate! What is it?” 

“¢ An order from head-quarters to join my regiment imme- 
diately, to take command of a detachment to march within 
ten days for the Indian frontier—to put down an insurrec- 
tion there !” 

“No!” exclaimed the lady, in amazement. 

“¢ Yes, indeed, my good mother!” replied Archer Clifton, 
sxultingly. 

“No! You astonish me! Ordered upon active duty— 
apon distant and dangerous service at the very time you are 
«bout to be married! Call you that opportune—fortunate ? 
{ call it most inopportune, unfortunate !” 

“Ah! madam, you do not know! What, and if my mar- 
riage were already broken off! Is it not lucky—I mean 
providential, that I can join my regiment immediately, and 
depart for a distant scene, and active service, in which I may 
firget the sorrow and the humiliation !” 

« Your marriage broken off? What? Now; at the last 
moment? A marriage that has been looked forward to for 
so many years? ‘To be broken off when every thing 1s ready! 
Impossible, it cannot be!” 

“J assure you upon my word, madam, it is but to 
true!” 

‘* Why—what-—do you tell me?’ exclaimed the lady, in 

T 


110 THE SEVERED HEARTS 


increasing astonishment. ‘“ When did it happen? Whee 
eaused it? Had Mr. Clifton anything to do with it ?”’ 

“Tt happened this evening after my return to Clifton. Mr. 
Clifton had nothing whatever to do with it—not having 
reached home at the time it occurred. It was occasioned b 
a most humiliating quarrel between niyself and Miss Clifton !” 

“Qh, a quarrel! A lovers’ quarrel! That is nothing! 
Though, in truth, it surprises me that the calm, proud Caro- 
lyn should descend to such a thing, as it does that my own 
son should deign to take a part in it. But it is really no- 
thing! Such things occur in almost every courtship !” 

“And those who quarrel in courtship should never venture 
upon uatrimony.” 

“Ah! that is an inhuman, unfaithful sentiment, my son! 
Young people are like other young natures, petulant, vain 
irascible, exacting—but life trains them into modesty, so- 
briety, forbearance. For this quarrel, Archer, it must be 
adjusted' It shall be to-morrow morning!” 

‘No, madam, it shall not! This quarrel is irreconcilable, 
believe me!” 

“ Pooh, pooh! What! with Carolyn? Nonsense!” 

“Mother! you shall judge! She has descended from her 
high place of maidenly pride and delicacy, and betraying the 
most revolting phases of suspicion, jealousy and fierce anger 
she has charged me with infidelity, base treachery and vice !” 

“ Dreadful! dreadful! as all angry words and acts ever 
are! But not unpardonable! Spoken in the frenzy of pas- 
sion—they will be retracted to-morrow! And then you must 
be reconciled. Things must go on as they have been planned 
There must be no discreditable exposure of this affray. The 
marriage must take place, as proposed, to-morrow evening 
Then, if you must join your regiment, why it will be easily 
understood that you must. And there will be no reproach 
under those circumstances in leaving your newly wediled 
bride under her father’s protection !”” 

“ Tinpossible, madam! Miss Clifton has to-night exhibtied 
her character and disposition in such revolting colors, that { 
gun never, never take her to my bosom!” 

“ You are angry now, Archer! You will thirk better of 
it! [trust in Heaven you may do so before there is an ex- 
posure. Think what will be the astonishment of the wed 


THE SEVERED HEARTS. 1h] 


ding-company who will assemble to-morrow evening— tha 
mortification of the family at Clifton, and worse than all, the 
scandal! the nine days wonder!” 

I thought my dear mother had too strong a mind to fear 
these bugbvars of the little, when a just occasion for meeting 
‘and braving them occurs.” 

« But I do not consider this an adequate occasion. That 
this quarrel will be finally adjusted, I firmly believe. And 
I think it a pity and a shame that to-morrow evening, three 
hundred guests should be disappointed and dispersed, to 
spread a subject of speculation and scandal all over the 
country. And this merely because you will yet a little 
longer indulge your anger '” 

“Tam not angry, mother. If I were only angry I should 
let the marriage go on, if Miss Clifton thought proper to do 
so, for I should know that my anger would pass away. No, 
Iam not angry, mother, but shocked, repulsed, and totally 
estranged. I could no more marry Miss Clifton now, than | 
could take any other loathed object to my bosom! The idea 
makes me shudder !”” 

‘Still I affirm that all this is intense anger, nothing else 
and that there will come a reaction. Why in anger, Archer 
the object is as much loathed as in love it is desired—but 
that is temporary, and this, I hope, you will find permanent 
I hope, at bottom, you respect Carolyn? J esteem her. She 
has been a spoiled child, but has so many undeveloped good 
qualities, that she only wants the discipline of a little affee 
tion to make her a very excellent woman. [I shall say 1y 
more about this affair to-night, but wait to see what disposi- 
tion I shall find you in to-morrow !” 

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and instauly 
afterwards Henny came in and informed her mistress that Mr. 
Kavanagh had come to take his sister home. 

“ Ask Mr. Kavanagh to sit down in the hall. Put up 
your sewing, Catherine, my dear!” said the lady. 

Cathe~ine arose to fold up her work, while Captain Clifton 
woked very much as if he would like to stop her again. 

“Does she not remain with you at night, madam?’ 

“ Certainly not—her brother always comes for her at byd- 
time.” 

“ How early does she came in the morning ?”’ 


112 THE SEVERED HEARTS, 


«She never comes in the morning. Catherine has ner 
own domestic affairs to attend to during the forenoon. She 
never gets here till late in the afternoon.” 

«‘ Then J shall not see her to-morrow—not see her again 
for many months—perhaps never see her again! Come here, 
Catherine !” 

Catherine came to-his side, and stood, as usual, with her 
eyes fixed upon the ground, and her cheek painfully flushed. 
Ife took her hand and pressed it in his own, while he said— 

“Catherine! you have heard all that passed between my- 
self and Mrs. Clifton, this evening ” 

A quick, short, but not ungracefal nod was all her answer. 

«And you know that I am going away on a distant and 
dangerous service ; I leave here very early in the morning— 
I may never come back, Catherine,” he said, slowly, looking 
at her steadily 

Her hand in his grew cold—her cheek paled—her heart 
itopped still as death—but no word did she speak in reply. 

“Catherine! before I go, I intend to give you a command— 
fo you hear me ?” 

A spasmodic nod was her reply. 

‘© ] may be gone many years. In the meanwhile you will 
grow up to womanhood, Catherine ; do not have any lovers— 
beaur—as young girls call them, while I am away—and above’ 
all things, do not choose a husband without first consulting 
me through my mother.” 

Not knowing what to reply to this, Catherine remained 
perfectly silent. 

«‘ Will you obey me in this, girl?” he asked, rather impa< 
tiently. 

A low, earnect sheling « Yes sir,” was her answer. 

“Kiss me, then! for I may never return,” said Archer 
Clifton, folding her for one moment to his bosom, and press- 
ing a kiss upon her full lips. 

3ut her lips grew cold at the touch—her face paled and 
fell away from his bosom—her form drooped and sank back 
wver his arm, where she lay like one dead, in a swoon. 

Surprised, alarmed, Clifton raised her in both arms, and 
hastened to the lounge, where he laid her, calling to his 
mother. The lady came forward without any trepidation, 
and bringing a bottle of Hungary water, began to chafe her 


THE SEVERED HEARTS. 113 


vemples and face, and finally gave that task to Clifton, while 
ehe herself loosened Kate’s dress. 

«“ What could have been the cause of this, mother? In 
she subject to these attacks 2?” 

«* T never knew her to faint before, though I have seen nex 
ander very trying circums.ances with that old man, hez 
yrandfather.” 

«¢ What could have occasioned it ?” 

“‘ Why, the sudden news of your going away on dangerous 
service, of course,” said Mrs. Clifton, as she resumed the 
bottle, and continued to chafe the girl’s face and hands. 
«The chila loves you, Archer; she has a very grateful, 
affectionate Leart, and very strong feelings. She loves us 
poth. And when you bade her good-bye, for a long and 
perilous absence, is it strange she should have been over- 
come? When swters talk of danger, children may be 
forgiven for being frightened. Do go and tell Kavanagh 
that Kate must remain here to-night, and dismiss him.” 

He went, and before he came back again, Kate, with a 
long drawn sigh, had vpered her eyes and recovered. 

“You must raise her, 1nd take her up stairs, my dear 
Archer. She must suflu zo more agitation to-night,” said 
Mrs. Clifton. 

And he lifted the form of “atherine, and took her up stairs, 
while his mother called Heniy. When they had laid the 
oung girl on a bed, and left her to the care of Henny, and 
bad returned to the parlor agaia—Captain Clifton said— 

“ Mother! take care of that ;irl! She has been the inno- 
cent, unconscious cause of my trouble to-day, but I cannot 
feel dislike or even indifference cowards her. Take care of 
that humble maiden, mother, as if she were your daughter 
and my sister. Don’t let any 1astic beaux come near her, 
mother. J cannot endure the itea of her marrying, or ven 
being wooed by any low, misesable fellow of her brotner’s 
grade. And do not permit any young gentleman of tke 
neighborhood to trifle with her heart, or endanger her good 
name. You know how easily, even without her fault, that 
sole possession of a poor maiden is lost. The thought that 
such an unmerited misfortune should befall Kate, exasperates 
me beyond measure, and I feel like quarreling with the 
whole order of society !” 


114 THE SEVERED HEARTS. 


“What, you! the proud conservator of rank! Truly 
Archer, one would think Carolyn had some little ground of 
complaint !” said the lady, with her little, low, half dignified, 
half jolly laugh. 

“This from yow mother!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, re- 
proachfully. “I thought you knew me better. You do 
know me better! But I must have some hand in this girl’s 
good fortune.” 

Mrs. Clifton, who was walking about the room, quietly set- 
ting things in order for the night, made no reply, but only 
smiled. And soon after she lighted a night-lamp, and 
placing it in the hand of her son, bade him good-night, and 
retired to her chamber. Captain Clifton remained pacing up 
and down the room, in troubled thought, some time after she 
had eft, before seeking his own couch. 


LOST AFFECTION. 115 


CHAPTER VIII. 


LOST AFFECTION. 


‘Oh! cast not thou 
Affection from thee! In this bitter world 
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast; - 
Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dim 
That bright gem’s purity.”.—Mrs. Hemans. 


MoRNING came at length. Carolyn Clifton arose unre- 
freshed, weak, dizzy and sick. ‘This was the first night’s 
rest she had ever lost in her life. And on looking in the 
glass—habitually the first thing the beauty ever did after 
rising—she was shocked to see what havoc one night’s evil 
passions had made in her appearance. What a fright she 
had become! How pale her cheeks, how dragged the 
muscles, how red, dim, and sunken her eyes! And this 
upon her wedding-day—and when she had a quarrel to make 
up with her intended husband, too! When, in fine, every 
circumstance pressingly demanded that she should appear in 
the highest beauty. Would Archer Clifton—would that 
fastidious, artistic worshiper of the beautiful—feel inclined 
to a reconciliation with such a spectre as herself, she mentally 
inquired, as she gazed wonderingly, deploringly, upon her 
haggard face? Carolyn was vain and proud and scornful— 
so vain and proud and scornful that she did not know—could 
not imagine that that very haggard face—haggard with sor- 
row for the estrangement and the separation, would be a 
stronger appeal, make a deeper impression upon the heart of 
her lover, than all the glory of her beauty had ever done. 
And thus vanity, pride and scorn punish their subject, not 
only by depriving her of very much respect and affection she 
would otherwise have, but by making her insensible of that 
love and esteem that really does surround her. 

Carolyn at length rang for her woman. And after some 
little delay she came in, evidently just aroused 1p out of her 


116 LOST AFFECTION. 


sleep, and wondering that her young mistress should summon 
her before sunrise. But as soon as she saw her lady, her 
wonder gave way to alarm, and she exclaimed— 

‘“My good gracious alive, Miss Carolyn! What’s der 
matter, honey? 

“ Has any one arrived this morning, Aunt Darky ”” 
inquired Miss Clifton, without noticimg the old woman’s 
alarm. 

“‘ No, chile, sure not! Who should ribe at dis onlikely 
hour ob de mornin? Ledst it war de doctor. Has you 
sent for de doctor, honey? But Lord, indeed, chile, you 
better lay down agin. Don’t keep on standin’ dere holdin’ 
up your hair, weak as you looks, an’ [ll run an’ see!” 

‘“ Aunt Darky, Lam not ill. I have. had a bad night’s 
rest-—that’s all. Go—and—” 

“A bad night’s res’, an’ like enough, honey! I had « 
berry bad night’s res’ de night afore, me an’ Old Nick tock 
up ’long o’ each oder! ’Deed chile, I was sort o’ scared 
an’ sorter happy, ’cause I was scared! An’ decd, chile, 
~’tween so many confrydictions, I could’n onderstan’ myself 
and kept awake all night! Lord, honey, it’s nat’ral! We’s 
all alike, ’cept ’tis de collor, an’ dat’s only outside show, 
skin deep. But bless you, honey, that wan’t nothin’ to the 
night resses I’se lost since dat, with long o’ eryin’ babies an’ 
teethin’ babies, an’ sick chillun, an’ ole man Nick comin’ 
home drunk ebery time ole Marse give him any holyday 
money to spen’ on hisself! Now praise be de Lor’, de chil- 
lun’s all raise’ an’ married an’ settle’ off, an’ Vm a free 
?oman! An’ I tell my galls how I ain’ gwine be bother’ 
long o’ der chillun, now in my ole days !” 

‘* Aunt Darky,” said Miss Clifton, feeling in no way flat- 
tered by the parallel, “ go and get my bath ready, and have 
a cup of strong coffee brought the instant I leave it.” 

“Yes, honey—an’ hadn’t de baff’s water better have de 
air tuk off o’ it, as you’se not so strong dis mornin’ ?” 

‘Yes, yes—what makes you trouble me by questions! 
You ought to know what is proper to be done.” 

«¢ An’ so I allus does know, honey—ony when I does my 
r:os’ properess’, you doesn’n alluz’ see it intc dat light an? 
you fines fau’rt long 0’ me,” said the old body, as she ‘eft 
the room. 





LOST AFFECTION, 113 


Wher Miss Clifton had left her warm bath, and had par- 
taken of the rich strong coffee—strong as the essence of 
coffee, and made rich and thick by being half cream and 
sugar, and brought to her in a tiny porcelain cup, she felt 
suificiently refreshed to be able, with the assistance of her 
woman, to make her morning toilet. 

When she had finished dressing it was still very early, and 
wo hours remained before breakfast—but she left her room, 
and met her father, who was an early riser, in the upper 
hall. 

He came forward and kissed her. Then held both her 
hands, and looked in her face, exclaiming—* What! pale, 
my child? Oh, tut! tut! tut! tut! tut! That’s all 
wrong! All wrong!” 

“Father! has he come yet ?” 

“« No, no—it’s quite early yet! He’ll be here anon! You 
should not have risen these two hours !” 

“Father, I could not sleep! I could not even lie in 
bed |” 

“Oh, pooh! pooh! pooh! All folly! All nonsense! 
Go back and rest.” 

*‘Wather, I cannot! My words to him were so wrong! so 
bitter! so insulting! I feel them to have been such, and J 
can never rest until I have told him so!” said Carolyn, 
dropping her head upon the only bosom to which her 
haughty heart could bear to confide its sorrow and its re 
pentance. 

“Well, so you were wrong, very wrong! It will teach 
you a lesson that will henefit you for the future. And for 
the present it will blow over. There, there, there—if you 
can’t be still, go and amuse yourself by making me a nico 
mint-julep! I want it before I go out in the fields—the 
morning air on my empty stomach isn’t good for me.” 

He then kissed Carolyn and let her go. As she left him, 
he saw to his surprise Frank Fairfax emerge from his cham- 
ber, with a portmanteau in his hand. Frank Leg ee set 
it down, and advancing, said— 

“Ah, sir! I was just about to seek you, to let you know 
that, to my infinite regret, I must leave you to-day.” 

«To day? You astound me! What is sp now! You 
mustn’t go—you shan’t!” 


118 LOST AFFECTION. 


“Sir, I have received an order to join my regiment with 
out delay!” 

‘“‘ Oh-h-h, that’s bad! That’s bad! Devil fly away with 
military life! That’s what was always hiking away Archer 
at the very time I wanted him most. But no frantic hurry' 
You ueedn’t go to-day! You mustn’t. Why, this is the 
wedding-day, you rascal !” 

“‘T know it, sir! But, to my everlasting regret, [ must 
forego the pleasure of being present upon that occasion. My 
_ order is a peremptory one, to join my regiment instantly.” 

“Well, well! To-morrow’ll do! To-morrow’ll do! One 
day cannot make so much difference !” 

‘< My dear sir, I surely need not tell you that soldiers 
should be ‘minute men’ in their obedience. Besides, if I 
do not seize the opportunity of meeting the Staunton stage 
as it passes through L to-night, I shall have to wait 
three days for the next stage. So, you see—” 

«Yes, yes; 1 see! Iam always called upon to see some- 
thing I don’t want to see! Ah! here comes the mint-julep! 
Did Miss Carolyn mix it ?”’ 

This was addressed to the colored boy who brought a pint 
tumbler on a little waiter. 

“‘ Yez, zur,” said the boy. 

“Do you take julep in the morning, Frank? Try this. 
Another julep for me, Nace!” 

“ No, no, I thank you, sir! JI never do. I wish you 
good-morning till breakfast time,” said Frank, taking up his 
portmanteau, and going down stairs. 

Frank put his little burden down in the lower hall, and 
went into the summer saloon, where he was sure, by the pre- 
cedent of the last thirty days, of finding Zuleime at the 
window, doing her sampler-work. Yes, there she was, in her 
white muslin and coral, with her jet black hair and damask 
cheeks! He went and sat down by her, (after saying 
“ Good-morning,’”’) and sat. for some minutes in perfect 
silence, watching Zuleime work the word £Love, in crimsor 
silk. At length— 

“Whom do you love best in the world, Zuleime?” he 
asked. 

«‘ How can you ask? Whom does everybody love best 





LOST AFFECTION. OES 


her nain sell,’ as the Welchman says, of course!’ exclaimed 
the merry maiden. 

“Humph! Well, whom do you love the next best to 
yourself ?”? 7 

“Why, let me see,” said the girl, pausing thoughtfully, 
with her needle poised in her hand; “I think, that next to 
myself, I love—Zuleime Clifton best of ali the world!” 

“T thought so! And JI can lay my hand upon my heart, 
and say, that you don’t love Zuleime Clifton a whit better 
than I do!—no, nor half so well! Ill throw down my gage 
on that, and fight it out to extremity! Come !—What have 
you to say to that?’ asked the young man, with all the 
earnestness in his face and manner that his light words 
wanted—“ say, speak! What do you say to that ?” 

“Why, that you are as foolish as Zuleime herself, in 
loving such a little, out-of-the-way baggage, that is neither 
woman nor child, nor good nor bad, nor any thing else in 
particular.” 

“ Well, at any rate, we both agree in loving and worship- 
mg Zuleime, however we may differ in our opinion of her— 
J, for instance, thinking her a beautiful, joyous, delightful 

irl. So, it’s settled, isn’t it ?? 

“ What is settled ?” 

“Oh, you know, you tease !” 

‘<] know the weather is settled, if you mean that!” 

“ Pooh !” 

“J don’t know that the naval trouble with Great Britain 
js settled, if you mean that!” 

“ Pooh, pooh!” 

‘Tt know that the marriage dower of thirty thousand dol- 
lars is settled upon Carolyn, if you mean that !” 

“¢ Pooh, pooh, pooh !” 

“ Well, I shall not try to guess again, lest you should say, 
*Pooh, pooh, pooh, pooh !’—four times !” 

“ Zuleime!” said the young man, earnestly, “I think, 
without presumption, I may say that I know your disposition 
towards me. Zuleime, I wish that we should pass all our 


lives together, side by side! I would like to open my heart _ 


and bid you look into it and read for yourself. I hate to 
say, ‘I love you,’ (though if you could look into my heart!) 
Oa, that phrase, ‘I love you,’ Zuleime, is so fallen, is se 


120 LOST AFFECTION. 


prostituted, so degraded from its high meaning— I Jove you 
so often means ‘ [ need your wealth,’ ‘need your family in- 
fluence,’ I desire your delightful beauty!’ Oh, Zuleime, 
dearest girl, how then shall I express my true, sincere, earn- 
est devotion to you?’ 

«“ You needn’t—I know you like me, Frank,” murmured 
Zuleime, very low. And then she added, lower still—* But 
I am nothing but a wild school girl, and, seriously, I fear it 
isn’t right for me to listen to such words for years to zome 
yet. And I fear father might not like it, only that he likes 
you so very well.” 

‘ And Zuleime bent over her sampler, diligently, commenc- 
ing the next word, fjope, in azure silk. 

‘J know it, Zuleime! Dear, candid girl, I know it all— 
all the seeming error! But, Zuleime, | am going away to- 
day,” (she looked up in surprise,) “and I may be gone for 
several years. When I come back I shall certainly return 
a captain, if not probably a major, or possibly a colonel. 
Before I go, I wish to have a fair understanding with your- 
self and your father, so that I may go away with some feel- 
ing of security. I want you both to promise that when I 
return you will give me your hand.” 

‘You may speak to father, Frank. But I tell you frankly 
now, what I wish you had heard before. It is this :—that I 
have been promised to my grim cousin, Major Cabell, ever 
since I can remember anything. And till you came, I have 
always, whenever 1 have anticipated the future at all, looked 
forward to being his hum-drum wife, and living in a grim 
three-story red brick, in a row, and opposite another row of 
stiff, prison-like red brick houses, each one of which, taken 
singly, is more dreary than all the rest. I didn’t like the 
prospect, Frank ; but I thought it was my fate, and the best 
father could do for me, and so I thought of no other possi- 
bility but the grim red brick house in the city and Major 
Cxubell. Besides, father is so good a father, and so fond and 
indulgent, that it seemed too wicked to think of disappoint- 
ing his gentle wishes, that never take the form of commands. 
And so, Irank, although whenever I would think of the 
grim brick house, with tall dark chambers, and the narrow, 
atony, distracting street before it, and Major Cabeil, my 
beart would sink very heavy, and I would think, young as T 


LOST AFFECTION. i223 


was, that there was scarcely any hope for me at all—yet, I 
would recollect my dear good father wished it, and I would 
pluck up my spirits and feel blithe asa bird again. It was 
all understood at the school where I am getting finished, ag 
they call it. And father left word that Major Cabell should 
be admitted to visit me. So when I am there he comes to 
visit me frequently, and takes me out riding, or driving, and 
to concerts. And the girls whisper together, and say that I 
am engaged—” 

“‘ Stop—stop—stop—stop! Pardon me, Zuleime! Par- 
don me, dear girl! But, I am giddy—indeed, I am ill! 
Have you yourself promised to marry him?’ 

“No, surely not; and that is the reason why I consider 
myseli in some sort free—but of my duty to my good father. 
No, he has never even asked me. He considers my father’s 
promise quite sufficient, and our marriage quite a matter of 
eourse. And so I used to consider it, too. These things 
are often done, Frank. These betrothals, I mean. Any 
one might suppose the custom obsolete—having died in the 
dark ages. Itis not. It prevails here to a considerable ex- 
tent. It 1s done to keep family property together, or family 
mterest closely cemented. And, Frank, he has never courted 
me yet. You see he considers me a child still. And so I 
am, compared to him, in years. And so I should be, in all 
things, « child, but that the shadow of that grim brick house 
is alwavs falling on my heart!” 

«And yet, with all this, you are a very, very merry 
maiden !” 

“Yes, so I am. I try to be! I keep adin up in my 
head to prevent me hearing what my heart wants to say! 
Goodness! I can do nothing for the poor thing, you know, 
and what’s the use of stopping to listen to its ery ~—thaé 
would only encourage it to complain the more. Don’t look 
so sorry, Frank! It is not all effort! It could not be, you 
know I’m naturally of a glad, elastic temper; and but for 
this drawback, Heaven knows what I should be! the wildest, 
maddest, most harem-scarem, most heels-over-head, skip- 
over-the-moon madcap that ever turned a quiet home topsy- 
turvy, and drove a quiet family to distraction! The Bible 
eays,— (rod loveth whom He chasteneth, and _ scourgeth 
every sun (2nd daughter) whom He receiveth.’ Then | think. 


122 LOST AFFECTION. 


(I do think, sometimes, young and volatile as I am,) L think 
that every one whom God redeems has some sorrow, and that 
that sorrow is always the precise on? fitted to cure their be- 
setting sin! As the proud are still kept down by poverty 
a1.d oppression, the vain lose their charms, or the power of 
enhaucing them, eic., ete., etc., among all the erring whom 
God designs to set right. And I, who am naturally so wild 
and thoughtless, must be sobered and made thoughtful by 
‘the prospect of that prison before me!” 

«< Zuleime, does this man love you?’ 

« Wrank, if I say he does not Aate me, it is the extent of 


all favorable things I can say about the state of his mind . 


towards me. No, he does not love me. It is entirely a be- 
trothal of convenience. Sometimes I look forward to my 
future life in that great unknown city, which I should dislike 
under any circumstances, and especially to pass my whole 
life in, with one I do not like, and who does not like me, and 
I wonder how I shall contrive to exist,—J, who love to be 
in the country, on this dear old homestead, with my fond old 
father and my tender old nurse, and the colored folks who 
love me so well,—and where I have so many occupations,— 
and, oh, my soul and body! I think how shadl | ever put 
life through in that packed up city! Sometimes I thmk— 
for I must have something to occupy my whole soul with— 


that I will be very gay and worldly, and dress, and visit, and » 


give balls, and go to bails, and theatres; but then again I 
reflect that it would be wicked to spend all one’s time and 
attention upon such things. And then I think I shall try to 
grow serious enough to join a church, and that I will be a 
leading member, and a Sunday School teacher, and a patron- 
ess of the Bible Society, and of the Missionary Society, and 
a getter-up of new kinds of benevolent associations, and 
Dorcas circles, and be a Committee woman, and a distributor 
of tracts, and a collector of subscriptions, ete. One mus 
d» something to fill up the long, long days; one must live 
somehow, and, upon the whole, I thought this latter plan 
miyht do, as it would occupy me entirely, and is not so 
wicked as the other.” 

«Ah, I don’t know that, Zuleime! But, my dearest girl, 
sease all these troubled thoughts about the futw e, unnatural 
~ your ag, and unwholesome to yourself! ‘fais whole 


ON Ee ee 


LOST AFFECTION. £23 


ajeud must be swept away like a cobweb. He doesn’t love 
you. You don’t love him. He has never asked you to 
marry him. You have never promised to doso. Itis a 
mere betrothal of convenience, made by the parents of both 
for the purpose of keeping family property together, and 
cementing family interests. Oh, it is all wrong! And there 
is nothing in it! JI will speak to your father. I will enter 
the lists with this Major Cabell, as a competitor for your 
hand. In all worldly circumstances, which are ever of the 
greatest value in a Clifton’s estimation—in family, wealth 
and social position, Iam his peer. Besides, I wear iny lady’s 
favor, which he does not! I will go to your father now and 
tell him as much, shall I, Zuleime ?” 

The young lady was busy threading her needle with golden 
yellow silk, and did not answer. He repeated the question. 

“Yes,” murmured Zuleime, beginning to embroider the 
last word of the trio,—Zaitlh,—im sunbeam silk. No time 
was to be lost. He raised her hand to his lips, and darted 
out upon the lawn to meet old Mr. Clifton, whom he saw ap- 
proaching the house. 

“¢ My dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfax, rather excitedly 
“T have something of the utmost importance to say to you 
Will you take a turn with me?” 

“My dear sir!” repeated the old gentleman, smiling, 
“breakfast is ready! Let’s go on to the house!” 

s¢ But my dear sir! my business is urgent!” 

‘¢ My very dear sir! the coffee is getting cold!” said tho 
old man, laughing at Frank’s excitement. 

“¢ Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sadly, | 
‘immediately after breakfast I must leave here. This, then, 
is the only opportunity I have or shall have of communicating 
to you what is on my heart to say—and it really zs on my 
heart.” 

«Say on then, my dear boy! say on!” exclaimed the 
benevolent old gentleman. But Frank, now that he had got 
leave to speak, was struck dumb. He thought it was per- 
fectly easy and simple to ask for Zuleime, but now the re- 
quest, like Macheth’s amen, stuck in his throat. “ Come,’ 
said the old gentleman, rnnning his fat arm through Frank’s 
slender one, ‘‘ give me the support of your arm, for I am not 
so young and active as vou are, and let us take a little walk 


124 LOST AFFECTION. 


up the path tewards Hardbargam. Perhaps we may meet 
Aicher, and bring him back with us to breakfast. He is not 
at the Aouse, is he?” 

“No, sir,” said Frank, glad to recover the use of his 
tc ngue. 

“We expect him here to breakfast. We shall probably 
meet him. Come! Well, row! what is it?’ he asked, ag 
. they turned their backs on the house. 

Frank had plucked up his courage, and now spoke to the 
purpose. 

« Mr. Clifton, as lam going away immediately after break- 
fast, and as I am to be absent for an indefinite length of time, 
I wish before I leave to tell you that which lies upon my 
leart—” here he paused a little time to collect his thoughts 
and fine words, while the old gentleman attended with an 
encouraging expression of countenance. Frank resumed— 
“Mr. Clifton, I love your daughter Zuleime. And I have 
come to beg your sanction to our engagement!” As the old 
man only said, “ Whew-w-w-w!” Frank continued—“ You 
know my rank in the army, and my prospect of promotion. 
You are acquainted with my family, and are aware of their 
interest and influence in the country. Allow me farther te 
add, that my own private fortune amounts to fifty thousand 
dollars. And I will settle thirty thousand on my bride. 
Besides which—” 

“Stay, stay—my dear fellow, stay!” interrupted the old 
man, with a troubled look. ‘This is ‘all nonsense, now! 
Zuleime is a child. And you have not known her more than 
six weeks. Love Zuleime! Pooh, pooh! You young men 
are so flighty and fickle in your fancies! You get frantic 
about every new face you see, and think yourselves in love! 
T’ooh, pooh! Now, Frank, my boy, come! let’s hear no 
nore of it! It’s all nonsense! You young officers are always 
in love, or faneying yourselves so! I dare say, you have 
been in love with all the daughters of all your commanders, 
and Heaven forefend, a little platonically smitten with all 
their wives, too! Come, I know you! Nonsense! Let’s 
hear no more of it!” 

«¢ Mr. Clifton, I am no trifler in matters of the affections 
T never Aave been. I never shall be, lL hope! And when J 
tell you, uvon my sacred honor, that never in my life have ! 


LOST AFFECTION. 125 


‘flirted, as it is called, with a woman—-that never in my life 
have I either loved or addressed the language of love to a 
woman—exccpt Zuleime—you will believe me!” 

% Oh-h-h-h!” exclaimed the old gentleman, with an ex- 
eeedingly bored look. “It’s all folly, all nonsense, I tell 
you: A sudden fancy! Nothing more! Let’s drop the subject.” 

“« Mr. Clifton,” said the young man, gravely and sorrowfully, 
for he saw that the old gentleman rather evaded than demed 
or accepted his suit, “ I have never, in my whole life, been 
addicted to taking sudden and evanescent fancies, as you 
might judge, from what I told you! And when I tell you 
that I love your daughter Zuleime, I mean that I love her 
sincerely and earnestly, with my whole heart and soul—and 
that I shall love her to the last hour of my life '” 

“ Bah! bah! It’s all tom-foolery, I tell you! You get 
yourself shut up in a country house with a pretty girl, and 
of course you fall in love with her! To be sure! What else 
could you do? It’s expected of you! You'd disappoint us if 
you didn’t! But it is such love as will not outlast your — 
journey to your regiment.” 

‘Tt will outlast my life! I know it will! I feel it will!” 
said Frank, earnestly, vehemently. 

“Tah! tah! tah !—you’ll fall desperately in love with the 
first pretty syuaw of the friendly tribes who shall come to 
bring moceasins to your frontier fort!” 

“Oh, God!” groaned the young man, bitterly, dropping 
his face into his hands. ‘There is no way of making a 
serious impression upon you, and I am going away in two 
hours !’? His tone and manner so affected the really impres- 
sible and benevolent old gentleman, that he half embraced 
hia with his fat arm, saying— 

“« Now don’t, Frank! Do be a good boy! Don’t! Do! 
It’s all folly now! Indeed itis! Do! Don’t! Now cone 
sider—how many pretty girls there are in the world! Don’t, 
Frank! A great deal prettier than my girl. Never fret 
about her. Do, Frank. Besides, she’s so young! <A mere 
sehool-girl. Only fifteen last Monday. Pooh, pooh! Not 
io be thought of, you know! Far too young!” 

“Sir, 1 can wait. I only wish your sanction to our engage: 
ment. I can wait three or four years, if necessary, or any 
iength of time at all, if I may hope to get her at last!” 

8 


126 LOST AFFECTION. 


“She is tov young, I tell you, Frank! Too young to 
know her own mind. Only fifteen. Ridiculous!” 

“ But, sir, Ihave heard of gentlemen older and more 
settled ee myself who have actually married girls of fifteen. 
/ only ask an engagement!” 

“¢ You mean me, you dog! I know you do! Isee you do! 
But, Frank, seriously and solemnly, I wouldn’t do so again! 
And for the very reason that J committed that egregious 
folly, that bitter wrong against a young girl, I will not suffer 


any one else to do the saine wrong to my child, if I can help 


it! }99 

“ No, Mr. Clifton—pardon me, but are you not about to 
commit a more grievous wrong to your own lovely, gentle 
child? Have you not? Pardon me! Pardon me! But have 
you not promised her hand where she cannot give her heart ?” 

‘No! Heaven forbid! I promised her to Charley Cabell. 
She used to like him very well. I did the best I could for her 
happiness. I have secured it—unless—unless—oh, my God, 
Frank!” suddenly exclaimed the old man, in his turn ex- 
tremely agitated, and wiping the perspiration from his brow, 
“<1 hope—I trust in God you haven’t entrapped her affec- 
tions! Frank! Frank! She 7s engaged to Major Cabell! 
I didn’t tell you so when you first asked me for her, because 
—because—for many reasons—” (wiping the streaming per- 
spiration from his brow) ‘it is—it is—disagreeable to re- 
member and to talk about it! But—but—she 7s engaged to 
Major Cabell, and—and for many reasons—family reasons— 
it is necessary that the engagement should be fulfilled! 
Unless—unless—some inevitable, tnsurmountable obstacle 


was to arise and prevent it! Frank! Frank! I am in a © 


great strait! a dire, doleful strait! but—but—sooner than 
make my girl unhappy, or stand in the way of her perfect 
happiness, I would—I would—I would die in a jail! Where 


I may die! Where I may die!” Nothing could exceed ‘he 


force of the emotion that agitated the old man, shaking his 
huge form, and choking up his utterance. 

Mr. Fairfax looked at him witk mingled astonishment, 
wonder and compassion. 

“ Boy—boy—you haven’t entrapped my dear child’s 
heart?” again inquired the old gentleman, trembling with 
excess of feeling. 


i I a 


LUST AFFECTION. 127 


“ Ent-apped is uot exactly the word, sir,” said Frank. 
proudly and mournfully. «I learned to love her, and I 
won her love without designing to do either !” 

“Lost! Lost!” cried Mr. Clifton, dropping bis head upor 
his bosom. He walked on in sileace so desponding, that 
Fairfax could not bring himself to intrude upon it. They 
went on until they suddenly met Major Cabell himself coming 
down the hill, apparently from Hardbargain. 

The Major was walking slowly, with bis head down, and 
twirling around his finger a topaz necklace. As soon as he 
perceived Messrs. Cliften and Fairfax, his forehead flushed, 
and he hastily crammed the necklace into his vest pocket. 
Frank thought the whole thing strange, but, but stranger 
still was the econduct—the metamorphosis—the transfigura- 
tion of Mr. Clifton, who, upon observing the Major, instantly 
put a violent constraint upon himself, and became the broad- 
faced, rosy, smiling, blue-eyed, debonnair old - gentleman, so 
lavish in the display of his fine teeth, and hearty, cordial 
_ words and smiles. Frank was provoked that their conversa- 
tion was so completely arrested. 

“ Ah, good morning,” said Mr. Clifton, addressing the 
Major. ‘‘ Been to Hardbargain this morning so early? How 
are all the folks up there? See, Archer? Why didn’t he 
walk with you? Eh? Expected him!” 

«¢] have not been to Hardbargain, sir,” replied the Major, 
rather morosely. 

‘¢ Been out taking a morning stroll then, eh? Fine appe- 
tite for breakfast, no doubt. And it is waiting for us, too. 
Come, Frank, let’s turn about.” 

They did so. Frank now noticed for the first time that 
the manner of the old gentleman was conciliating, while that 
of the Major was surly. 

They soon reached the house, and the breakfast-room, 
where the ladies were awaiting their arrival. 

As they entered, the countenance of Carolyn Clifton wag 
flushed and eager. But when they had all got in, and were 
seated at the table, the color died out of her face, leaving 
her pale as marble. She merely trified with her breakfast, 
pretending to eat, but no morsel passed her lips. When 

breakfast was over, and the co1apany dispersed about the 


128 LOST AFFECTION. 


room, Uarolyn almost.reeled past her father in gcing out, and 
muttered with pale lips—‘ Father! Not come yet?” 

“Never mind! Never mind, my dear! I will ride up to 
[Tardbargain and fetch him.” 

* Not for the universe, father! if he never comes!” re 
plied the determined girl, plucking up her spirit, and sweep- 
ing proudly past and going into the piazza, where she sat, 
by-the-bye, with her eyes strained up the mountain-path by 
which he ought to come. 

Frank got no opportunity of speaking alone with Zuleime. 
Old Mr. Clifton met him, however, when he came in from 
looking after his horse, and said, kindly patting him on the 
ehoulder— 

«Indeed, my dear boy, I don’t see the least necessity for 
your leaving us until after dinner. The stage coach doesn’t 
pass through L——— till eight o’clock at night, and five or 
six hours is ample time in which to reach there !” 

“ Yes, sir! I grant it, but I have to go this morning to 
Hardbargain to take leave of Mrs. Clifton, and of my friend 
Archer, if, indeed, the latter is not ordered on the same duty 
as myself, which, upon Miss Clifton’s account, I am inclined 
to fear!” 

“Oh! Are you going to ride to Hardbargain? Then, 
perhaps, you will be pleased to learn that Zuleime is going 
there this morning, also, to assist Mrs. Clifton in putting the 
last finishing touches to her.dress for this evening. And you 
ean escort her !”’ said Georgia, smoothly gliding between them, 
and laying her head and hand with child-like freedom and 
affection upon the old man’s shoulder. 

“Oh! I shall be very happy!” said Frank, “ really happy 
—nay, overjoyed, intoxicated, with the prospect of an unin- 
terrupted, farewell téte-d-/éte with Zuleime.” 

Old Mr. Clifton looked rather disappointed, but he was 
not of a very combative disposition—especially had he no in- 
~lination to contradict Georgia. Besides, he at once reflected 
that there was really no danger. They couldn’t be married 
in the neighborhood, because they could get no license, and 
no clergyman dare marry them without one. And it was not 
probable, or even possible, that Frank would elope with his 
_daughter or the very eve of joining his regiment for a distant 
and dangerous service. In truth, he felt it was foily te 


LOSI AFFECTION. 129 


cherish a misgiving. And yet he Aad misgivings, nor could 
he banish them—the utmost extent of his self-control was— 

not to act upon them—not to forbid their riding together 
While Zuleime was putting on her hat and riding habit, 
Frauk got the ear of the old gentleman once more, and for 
the last time. The old man had sunk into his broad- 
bottomed flag chair in the hall, with his thick gold-headed 
stick between his knees, and his two hands and his chin rest- 
ing upon it, when Frank stood before him with folded arms 
and head dropped upon his breast, and said— 

«Mr. Clifton—once more, and for the last time, I ask you, 
and [ implore you to answer me candidly. Is there any pos- 
sibility that, under any change of circumstances, at any future 
time, I may hope for your consent to my union with Zu- 
leime ?” 

The earnestness, deepening almost into solemnity, of the 
young man’s manner and words, impressed Mr. Clifton very 
deeply, but he replied—* Mr. Fairfax, it is best to speak the 
plain, harsh, cutting truth, though that truth is the axe laid 
to the root of all your hopes of Zuleime. No. Yet I regret 
this, Frank! You donot know how much! But you must 
forget her! I hope you will soon do so! I know you must!” 

Frank shook his head in despairing negation. And farther 
colloquy was arrested by the coming down of Zuleime equip- 
ped for her ride. 

“¢ Come here, my daughter! Now you must be sure to be 
back by dinner time, do you hear ?” 

“ Certainly, sir!” 

“¢ Promise me.” 

“‘ Of course [ do.” 

“Upon your honor!” said the old man, seriously. 

‘Upon my honor, sir, I will return by dinner time! But 
what makes you so emphatic about it, dear father 2’ 

«“ A notion of mine, my child! but I have your promise !” 

« Of course you have, sir!” said Zuleime, drawing on her 
gloves. 

Mr. Fairfax was taking leave of Mrs. Clifton. Presently 
be turned to bid adieu to Mr. Clifton. 

The old gentleman shook his hand warmly, wishing him 
- all the success he desired, and affecting to laugh and jest, 
while he exacted a like promise from Fairfax, namely, that 


130 LOST AFFECTION, 


he should take his girl to Hardbargain, and leave her, there 
.o return by dinner time. 

Frank gave his word very cheerfully. The young couple 
then mounted and rode away. The old man watched them 
from the piazza in sorrowful love, murmuring— 

“God bless them. I wish they could be married. Poor 
things. If they do love each other so much, or if they thank 
they do, which is quite as bad while it lasts—why, it is but 
kind to let them have this last little parting comfort of a ride 
together! And it was well, too—” chuckled the old gentle- 
man—* to tie them up with promises, so that they can’t run 
away, which they might else be tempted to do in their part- 
ing hour. But they will neither of them ever break their 
word, and J shall have her back safe by dinner time. For 
it is utterly impossible for them to get married without a 
license, and it is quite impracticable to get a license this side 
of L , or to ride to L between this and noon, 
much less to ride thither and return here in time for dinner! 
Ah! I have them there! And yet, I am sorry for them, too 
Poor things !” 

All this time Carolyn Clifton had sat like one dead, only 
with her eyes strained up the mountain bridal-path. 

In the meantime, Frank and Zuleime pursued their ride. 
As soon as they were out of sight and hearing of a band of 
fi-ld laborers, employed in cutting grass, and had entered the 

shady mountain path, Frank said— 

_ Well, Zuleime, my dearest girl, I spoke to your father—” 

—‘“ And his answer-—I almost dread to hear it—yet I 
know what it was, too.” 

Frank nodded his head, and they rode on in silence for 
some minutes, broken at ‘last by Frank, who suddenly ex-~ 
claimed— 

« Zuleime! you bear this so well !” 

“Frank, you know this is no new thing to me; I have 
known it, and been prepared for it all along!” replied the 
girl, with a look of resignation. 

“Oh, Zuleime! is there no way to prevent it ?” 

« None that I know of, Frank !” 

«« Zuleime! I was in every way his equal—why, when that 
is the case, and when I was supported by your voice, too— 
wny was I rejec*ed 2” 








se ee, 


LOST AFFECTION 131 


The matlen shook her head. 

*¢ Zuleime, when is this nideous marriage Resovty to come 
aff —do you know?” 

‘© Whenever Major Cabell chooses to demand my hand, 
a believe !” 

“Really! Upon my word! He isa personage of tre- 
mendous importance! Whenever HE chooses to demand your 
hand!! Zuleime! that is passing strange! This affair — 
seems then to rest entirely with Major Cabell!!! 

‘< Yes, it does entirely.” 

«Bless his Majesty. Zuleime, what hold has that man on 
your father?” 

Zuleime shook her black ringlets mournfully, but did not 
reply. 

‘Do you know, my dear girl, that I am impressed with 
the idea that your father does not at heart wish to give you 
to Major Cabell, but ratber yields to a strange power the 
man holds over him 

“ At times I have thought so, too. But then my dear 
father at other times really seems so set upon the marriage, 
that the thought has been driven out of my head again! I 
do not know what to think! But what I do know is, that I 
will never willingly do anything to give my dear father 

ain !7? 
4 ‘«‘ My dearest girl, do you know that J believe, from my 
soul, that your marriage with Major Cabell will give your 
father more pain than any other circumstance could ?”’ 

The young girl looked up in surprise. 

“Zuleime! he told me to-day, that though he had promis- 
ed you to Major Cabell, he would rather die than see you un- 
happy, or stand in the way of your perfect happiness !” 

“My dear father! My dear, gentle father! My fond, 
old father!” exclaimed Zuleime, with the bright tears rolling 
on her damask cheeks, like dew on the red rose. ‘ My kind, 
generous father! He shall never know that I am unhappy! 
And neither shall I be unhappy when pleasing him !” 

“My dear, excellent girl! listen to me! You shall not 
be unhappy any way! Do you suppose, Zuleime, that I could 
ride by your side so cheerfully, if I thought you were going 
to marry that man, up whom your father no more wishes to 
bestow you, than he wishes ta send sa toperdition? [.isten, 


132 LOST AFFECTION. 


my daring girl! When your father told me what I have 
repeated to you, he went on to say, that for certain family 
reasons, it was incumbent on him to fulfill his promise, and te 
bestow your hand upon Major Cabell, unless some insur mount 
wbhle obstacle should interpose to arrest the union’ Zuleime! 
a flood of light broke on me then! and I felt and knew that 
the old man would yield his darling daughter to the myste- 
rious power exercised over him by Major Cabell, rather than 
bestow her with esteem and affection! Zmleimaal ! without 
vanity, I think that he loves me better, and would prefer me 
for a son-in-law, if he were free to cheese. I think, indeed 
I do, that he would hail with secret joy “an insurmountable 
obstacle,” which would prevent the marriage, and not im- 
plicate him in any manner. I think that was what he meant 
when he said what he did. Still, I am sonvinced that the 
words slipped ftom him unintentionally. I am certain he 
did not mean to give me the hint, which nevertheless, I take, 
for he is a man of strict honor, I know, and would never 
tamper with the spirit of a promise any more than he would 
break the words !” 

«Oh! no, he never would, indeed !” 

«¢ And again, my dearest girl, when I asked him just be- 
fore we came away, whether, at any future time, under any 
possible contingency, I might hope to obtain his consent to 
our union, he assured me that [ might not, and earnestly en- 
treated me to forget you! ‘That further convinced me that 
he had no design in giving me the hint upex which I am 
about to act—do you hear me, dearest Zuleims ?”’ 

Zuleime did not, or at least did not appear to, 

“ Zuleime, my darling, my love,” said Frank, dismount- 
ing in the path, and lifting her from her saddle, * I am about 
to raise ‘ an insurmountable obstacle’ to your marriage with 
the Major !” 

Zuleime turned deadly pale with surprise and terror, and 
glanced wildly around, while she fell upon his arm and seemed 
about to faint. 

“Why, Zuleime! Come, come. What is tha matter? 
Don’t be afraid! What, afraid of me, of Frank, venr play- 


mate! Why, look up in my face and see! Come lift up 


your heal’ J want to talk to you! There! there Why, 


LOST AFFECTION. 135 


what are you afraid of? I will take no step without your 
consent, sweet Zuleime !” 

The infinite tenderness of his words, tones and manner, 
reassured the frightened girl, and she raised her face, now 
suffused with blushes. Ile supported her with his arm 
around her waist, while he pointed down into a narrow glen 
So the right, and said— 

There! Look there, Zuleime. Do you see that little 
stone house—there in the bottom of the glen—there by the 
spring—but so much like the rocks, near it, and so deep in 
the shade, as hardly to be distinguishable! Do you see it ?” 

“ Yes,”’ breathed the maiden, very low 

“¢ Jo you know who lives there ?” 

FRAN 0,02 

“A good old man! A saintly old man! A poor Baptist 
missionary preacher, who lives in that hut quite alone, and 
preaches there every Sunday to an humble congregation, 
composed of poor mountaineers and negroes. He has de- 
voted his life to labor among the mountain people, and has 
done wonders in reforming them! Is it possible that you, 
living in the neighborhood, knew nothing of him ?” 

“Oh, yes! I have heard a great deal about Mr. Saunders, 
only I did not know where exactly his hut was. There are 
so many of them, you know!” said the girl, somewhat re- 
covered, and much interested. 

“‘ My dearest Zuleime! we will go down to that hut! ‘I 
see by the smoke, that so gracefully curls,’ that the old man 
is at home. We will tell him the whole story, as far as we 
know it, and get him to raise that required insurmountable 
obstacle !” 

sh! Frank!” exclaimed Zuleime, shocked, delighted, 
terrified, overjoyed. 

‘But, my dearest Zuleime! my dearest love! I have 
recorded an oath in Heaven, to save you from that marriage 
with Cabell! And I will never leave you until you are my 
wife. If you refuse Now, I will throw up my commission iu 
the army, and live there in that hut with the old parson, 
antil yon do consent!” 

* But, my father, Frank! My dear father!” 

« Dearnst girl, he will be glad!” Here Frank went over 
the whole story again, and added—*“ And Zuleime, have you 


134 LOST AFFECTION, 


_no love, no pity left from your father to bestow upon che 
poor soldier who loves you so, and who is going out to the 
Indian frontier, where he may lose his scalp, or be burned 
alive, or eaten raw within a month by the red-skins? Will 
you refuse his last prayer?’ etc., etc., ete. Over and over 
again, fervently, earnestly, imaploringly, despairingly he re- 
peated the argument and the prayer, while he held the maiden 
“ haif willing, half afraid.” ‘She who hesitates is lost,” it 
is said. 

Zuleime hesitated a.long time, and, consequently, was tost — 
to all eternity. What could she oppose, indeed, to what 
seemed so right and reasonable? With a deep sigh she 
yielded at last. There was no path that way down into the 
glen, and the descent was deep and precipitous, and over- 
grown with stunted cedar, pine and thorn bushes. So, 
Romeo and Juliet began to clamber down, by foot-holds of 
jagged rocks, and fist-holds of thorn bushes, to the great 
risk of wounded hands and torn pants and petticoats. And 
s0 it was in rather a disordered state of attire, as well as in 
an excited state of mind, that they at last arrived before the 
door of Father Lawrence’s cell, and rapped. While they 
waited for the old man to appear, Frank, very much to the 
surprise of Zuleime, drew from his vest pocket a license—a 
regular bona fide liccnse, signed by the clerk of R 
county, and sealed with the county seal. Resting his foot 
upon the door-step, he took off his hat, turned it down on his 
knee, laid the license upon its top, and drawing from his 
other pocket a travelling pen and ink case, proceeded to 
write the names of Francis Rutland Fairfax and Zuleime 
Dovilliers Clifton in the’ blank spaces. 

‘¢ You look surprised, my dearest girl,” said he, as he re- 
turned the pen and ink case to his pocket. ‘‘ You wonder 
how I came by this license? I will tell you. I have it by 
a stroke of the rarest good fortune. You know, being 
groomsman, I was entrusted with the duty of riding to 
J,-_——,, and procuring the marriage license for Archer and 
your sister. Well! when I arrived at the clerk’s office, by 
the strangest caprice of memory, I entirely forgot Miss 
Clifton’s middle name, so I got the clerk to give me one 
license filled out with the names of Carolyn Clifton and 
Archer Clifton, and then knowing how extremely punctilious 





LOST AFFECTICN. 139 


you all are here, in this county, I procured another license 
regularly signed and sealed, but leaving blank spaces for the- 
proper names of the parties! There, darling! that is ihe 
mannet in which I ca:ne by it! Now, this blank one I fill 
up with our names, which I really think look quite as pretty 
as the others would! | As for Clifton and your sister, if they 
want a license, they will have to put up with the first, which ] 
will land to Archer as soon as we get to Hardbargain. Bless 
my soul! what has become of that old man?’ he exclaimed, 
rapping loudly, then trying the door and pushing it open. 
The house was empty. Frank looked dismally disappointed, 
but Zuleime plucked him by the sleeve, and whispered, hur- 
riedly— 

«¢ Here he comes—behind you!”’ 

And he turned to see the old preacher coming from the 
spring, bending under the light weight of a small pail of 
water. Frank immediately went to him, greeted him respect- 
fully, and took from his hand the pail, and carrying it, 
walked by his side, till they reached the house. Lieutenant 
Fairfax then introduced himself by name and station, and 
presented Miss Zuleime Clifton. The old man bowed and 
offered his hand, with a courtly grace, in strange contrast to 
his rude garb and rough habitation. -He invited them to 
come in and sit down. And when they had entered, and 
Zuleime was seated, Frank took the old man aside, commu- 
nicated the object of their call, and produced his license. 
The old man glanced from the earnest countenance of Frank 
to the blushing, downcast face of Zuleime, shook his bald 
head, and looked very grave. ; 

Frank drew him off to the farthest corner of the little hut, 
made him sit down on the foot of his bed, seated himself by 
his side, and in a fervid, earnest, eloquent manner, told him 
their little story. 

Many times the old man shook his thin, gray locks. They 
were not good things—these secret marrias es—they never 
bee Marriage should be open as day—with the 

lessing of God—with the blessing of parents—with the 
sympathy of friends—with the good wishes of acquaintances 
to hallow and prosper the union. 

“Qh!” said- Frank, but this was an extraordinary occa- 
sion, the father was really at heart not opposed to this mar 


136 LOST AFFECTION. 


riage, but circumstances compelled him to withhold his open 
consent—he himself, (Frank,) was about to depart on a long 
journey, aud merely wished to secure his bride against a 
forced marriage of convenience during his absence. In short, 
Frank recommenced the argument, and told it all over fi» 
beginning to end. 

Still the old man shook his bald head and demur-ed. 

Frank began the story over again, recited the whole of it, 
with many additions and improvements. 

To no purpose—the old man was obdurate. Frank, then 
half angrily, arose and said— 

“Come Zuleime! We must go on to the frontier together, 
and find somebody to marry us on the route, and let Mr. 
Saunders here be responsible for all trouble that may ensue, 
since with the license before him, he refuses to unite us.” 
At this, Zuleime burst into tears and wept heartily. 

The old preacher dropped his head upon his breast in trou- 
bled thought for some moments, and, whether the arguments 
of Frank had after all produced some effect, or whether he 
feared to encounter the responsibility of sending this wild 
young couple on their way unmarried, or whether he was 
moved to pity by the tears of Zuleime, or whether, as is 
more probable, all these considerations actuated him, I know 
not; but he slowly rose to his feet, uncovered his head, and 
lifted up his eyes in silent prayer awhile, then bade the 
young pair stand up, for that he would marry them. 

Frank clasped the hand of Zuleine, and led her forward. 
And in less than fifteen minutes more, by the magic of a few 
words, the youth and maiden were man and wife. And while 
Mrs. Fairfax, with trembling white fingers, was tying her 
hat, Mr. Fairfax would have emptied the whole contents of 
his purse in the minister’s hands,—but, though that money 
might have supplied the poor old preacher with many neces- 
saries for which he really suffered, and made him very com- 
fortable for a long time, yet he turned away his head, and 
put it away from him, saying— 

‘No, young man, | cannot take your gold; I may have 
erred in what I have done, but I did not do it for money.” 

«“ But you always take a fee, do you not?” 

‘“Hrom others I do—not from you. It would not be 
blessed.” 


LOST AFFECTION. 187 


The boyish brow of Frank clouded and darkened, but it 
cleared again mstantly as he turned towards his bride. 

‘ney were about to bid the old minister adieu, when he 
took a hand of each, and joining them again, held them ip 
is own, while he said— 

“ Children, if this thoughtless act bring you into much 
‘rouble, in tle long, weary years of trial and suffering that 
may result from it, reproach me for my share in the rash 
deed as much as you please, but,—” he paused and looked 
solemnly from one to the other,—* never, as you value love, 
and fidelity, and peace,—never, as you value the favor of 
Heaven, never reproach each other with it! So may God 
forgive, and bless, and prosper you! Good-bye!” 

The young bride and groom had bowed their heads during 
this. benediction, and ut its close responded with a silent, 
heartfelt amen. They then left the cabin. 

If the minister of Goda grievously erred in performing this 
- secret marriage ceremony, he was soon called to account for 
it; the old man died that night. 

As Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax left the cabin, they perceived 
Kate Kavanagh, on her little rough-coated mountain pony, 
coming straight down into the glen—her sure-footed little 
animal treading with perfect security the precipitous descent 
down which they had been obliged to clamber. Kate was 
looking very pale and care-worn, so that her ponderous 
abutting forehead, in its pallor, reminded Frank of a bare- 
bleached cliff. And, indeed, he thought that Kate’s face 
looked more like that of an anxious politician, with the af 
fairs of a nation on his shoulders, than of a grieved girl. 
But this was the fault of her marked features. But little 
time or thought had Mr. Fairfax to bestow upon the moun- 
tain-girl ; so as soon as he caught sight of her, he turned in 
another direction, to avoid being recognized, saying— 

* By all that’s fatal, my dearest love, we were near being 
detested! And by all that’s fortunate, we have escaped | 
Come, this way , we will take a stroll down the glen and 
into. the forest for a little while, until this girl is clear of the 
way.” 

* Oh, but it will delay us so much, I shail not have time 
to go to Hardbargain, and assist Aunt Clifton, and get back 
kome to dinner, as I promised!” 


138 LOST AFFECTION. 


“¢ My dear!” said Frank, reproachfully, “do you grudge 
me these last few hours of your society, when we are about 
to be separated so far and so long? Besides, you know you 
are my own dear wife now. Will you refuse ”” 

‘No, no, I cannot! But, oh, let me return to father— 
my dear, fond, confiding father,—as soon as I promised! 
Let me keep the word of promise to his ear, if Ihave broken 
it to his hope!” cried Zuleime, bursting into a passion of _ 
tears. 

Safe tears, and unobserved but by him who kissed them 
away, for already they had entered the thicket, and were 
veiled from the sight of Kate Kavanagh, who now dis- 
mounted before the door of the hut, and taking from the 
horns of the saddle a basket and a bundle, entered the poor 
preacher’s humble habitation. We will turn from the erring 
pair and enter with her. None but God knew how much dis- 
interested good the poor mountain-girl did in this world. 
Even the minister, who loved and respected her, knew little 
beyond the good she did for him. He knew that she knit 
new stockings and darned old ones for him—that she took 
his scanty clothing every week, and mended, and washed, 
and ironed it for him—and that when she brought it back, 
she would always bring him butter, cream and cheese of her 
own making, and a fresh loaf of rising bread of her own 
baking, and often some little rural luxury besides, as a jar 
of honey or a piece of venison. And that she would stay 
and clean up his house before she left. He knew that she 
was kis good spirit. 

As Kate entered the room, the old man came and met her, 
and took the basket and the bundle from her hands and set 
them down, and set a chair for her, and made her sit down 
in it, while he said— 

« My dear child! my excellent child, you do too much for 
me! You hurt yourself, Catherine, and make me too deeply 
your debtor !” 

Kate waved her hand in that quick, short way peculiar te 
nerself, silently beseeching him to stop. 

‘“‘ But it is the truth, Catherine, my child! J shall never 
be able to repay you!” 

«Oh, sir! you have reversed the case! It is J who am 
your dsbtor! If I were not particularly your debtor for al 


LOST AFFECTION. 139 


the education —mental, and moral, and religious, that I have 
ever received, up to the time of my coming to Hardbargain— 
still I should be generally your debtor, as youth is the gene« 
ral debtor of age—owing it all the service it can give.” 
Then, to change the subject, the girl laid off her straw hat, 
drew off her sheep-skin home-made mittens, and arose and un- 
covered her basket, saying —‘‘Instead of a loaf of rising bread , 
Mr. Saunders, I have brought you some fresh biscuits; | 
thought they might be an agreeable change. There is alsa 
a fresh print of butter, and a bottle of cream, and a beef’s 
tongue, boiled—I thought the last would give you an appe- 
tite—I think you have not had a good appetite, lately !” 
And without more ado Catherine put the things away in the 
cupboard, setting the bottle of cream in a bowl of water, to 
keep cool, and wishing to herself that she had a lump of ice 
to put on the old man’s print of butter. Next, she unrolled 
the bundle, took the old man’s nicely washed and mended 
clothes, and put them neatly away in the chest of drawers. 
Then she set the empty basket aside, rolled up her sleeves, 
stooped down upon the hearth, and began to make the fire, 
saying—“ You know I have come to dine with you to-day, 
Mr. Saunders!” 

“T know you have come to bring me many comforts, 
and to cook my dinner, and clean up my house, and 
make me very comfortable, you good girl, my dear little 
Brownie !” 

Catherine moved about, in her quick and quiet way— 
filled and put on the kettle—for the old man would always 
have his cup of tea—and set the table, placing all the little 
rarities she had brought upon it. When all was ready, and 
_ they sat down, the old man found leisure to observe that 
Kate ate nothing, and looked pale and thoughtful. 

“« What is the matter, my dear Kate !—you who are always 
Sericus, are now positively sorrowful! What is it ?” 

Kate, who was truth itself whenever she spoke, chose for 
that reason to give no answer. 

The old man looked more and more disturbed, and laymg 
down his knife and fork, said— 

“‘ Nay, but Catherine, my dcar child, there is something 
the matter! Ido not wish to intrude on your confidence, 
brut if you have any trouble that you think I may possibly 


140 LOST AFFECTION. 


be able to soothe—confide in me, as if I were your own 
father, my child.” 

‘¢ Dear Mr. Saunders, don’t trouble your good heart about 
ny cloudy face. Sure and hasn’t a poor girl the same right 
to her smoke that a wealthy young lady has to her vapors?” 
said Kate, smiling. 

The old minister did not press his question, but resumed his 
knife and fork with a look of mortification that worried Cath- 
erine, so that she said— 

‘¢J will tell you, then, what troubles me. My dearest, 
best friend and patron, Captain Clifton, has bidden me gooa- 
bye, and departed for the frontier! That is bad—oh, yes! 
—very bad. But thatis not the worst. He has gone away 
very unhappy. I might as well tell you what everybody 
will soon know :—his marriage is broken off! He has gone 
away in anger with his promised bride. He has gone away 
so wretched! Mr. Saunders, when I saw him last night, 
looking so pale, and stern, and proud—and knew the haugli- 
tiness and the anguish of his heart, I thought I could have 
died to have restored peace and joy between him and her he 
loved so strongly.” 

‘«« Mercif 41 Heaven !—those Cliftons! This is another in- 
stance of their fatal subjection to passion! Do you know, 
my dear child, what caused this quarrel ?” 

‘‘ T know nothing but this—the marriage is broken off for 
the present! I do not know wherefore.” 

«© Sone jealous suspicion of one party or the other! 
Those. Cliftons all have Spanish blood in them, and the Span- 
ish ¢haracter is uppermost in their nature. They are all 
hau ‘hty, reserved, jealous, suspicious.” 

‘. Ah, but they are full of courage, magnanimity and be- 
nevolence,” said Catherine. 

«© Archer Clifton is of a very jealous and suspicious nature 
--was his betrothed inclined to coquetry ?” 

“ Oh, Ido not know, sir, but the misunderstanding did 
not originate in any charge against Miss Clifton. It was 
something of which Miss Clifton accused him, but of what, I 
do not know !—he did not say. My dear Mr. Saunders, I 
told you what troubled me, to satisfy your kind heart, and 
allay your benevolent anxiety on my account. And now 
please forgive me, for besceching you not to question me 


LOST AFFECTION. 141 


ferctner upon the subject. They—the parties, I mean—are 
far removed above my sphere of thought and action—and tha 
investigation of their motives of action, by me, seems to in- 
voive a certain indelicacy—I fear even impertinence of inter- 
ference,” said Catherin:, geitty. 

*¢ Yet, far above your sphere of thought and action as you 
say they are, they are not—at least ove of them is not—- 
above your sphere of sympathy and emotion. His sorrow 
affects you with sorrow!” 

The blood rushed te Kate’s brow, and she remained silent. 

The old man and the maiden soon after arose from: the 
table. She washed up the dishes, tidied up the house, and 
collected the poor preacher’s soiled and broken clothes, and 
tied them in a bundle to take away with her to wash and 
mend. Then she tied on her hat, and took leave of him; 
the old man calling her back, again and again, with vague, 
prophetic meaning, to repeat over and over—“ God bless you, 
my child! God bless you!” It was his dying benediction. 

A poor mountaineer, that called early the next morning 
to get the poor minister to the poor to come and bury his 
wife—found the old man dead. 


1423 : WOMAN’S PRIDE 


CHAPTER IN, 
WOMAN’S PRIDE. 


The bird when she pineth may hush her song, 

Till the hour when ee heart shall again be strong; 
But thou—canst thou turn in thy woe aside, 

And weep midst thy sisters? No, not for pride. 


May the fiery word from thy lip find way, 

W ben the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to-day ? 
May the grief that sits in thy weary breast,. 

Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest ? 


No! withthe shaft in thy bosom born, 

Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn! 

Thou must fold thy mantle, that none may see, 

And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free! 
Mrs. Hemans. 


Aut the forenoon, Carolyn Clifton sat in the same place and 
in the same attitude in which we left her, affecting to read, 
but really watching the mountain-path with heart-sickening 
anxiety. Every distant sound of a horse’s hoofs that struck 
upon her ear, sent an electric shock to her heart, causing her 
to start violently, tremble, and turn deadly sick and faint, 
with accelerated hope and fear, until its nearer approach re- 
vealed some neighbor going on his way, or some negro com- 
ing from the mill or the village, to her despairing sight. 
Tver the sound of carriage wheels, as they occasionally rolled 
by, made her heart pause in its pulsations until it passed, and 
proved to be some family going on a visit or a shopping er 
rand.—For still she hoped that if he did not come down the 
mountain-path on horseback, he might come round the road 
with his mother in her carriage. He came not. And oh, 


the wedding day was almost over! Noone saw the strife of - 


hope and fear, like the struggle of life and death, going on 
silently in her bosom. Mrs. Georgia Clifton spent the whole 
forenoon in her own apartment, professing to be engaged 
with many elegant preparations for the evening ; but really 
full of triumph for the success of her wicked scheming, and 


aoe 


WOMAN’S PRIDE. 143 


anxiety and wonder for the events of the evening, ana dark 
regret also for the absence of him who, if lost to Carolyn 
forever, was lost to herself for a time at least. With all 
these passions and emotions striving in her bosom, she dared 
not show herself, lest her conscious heart and conscious face 
should betray her—for Georgia was yet young in wickedness. 

The Misses Cabell were in their own chamber, putting a 
few finishing touches to their dresses for the evening, for 
they, with Zuleime, were to be the bridesmaids. 

Zuleime herself had not yet returned, although it was near 
noon. | | 
Old Mr. Clifton had been out, as was his daily habit of a 
forenoon, riding around his plantation. 

He came in to-day a little earlier than usual, and finding 
his daughter exactly where he left her, but looking still more 
pale, haggard and anxious than in the morning, he sat down 
by her side, put his arm tenderly around her waist, and 
gazed lovingly into her whitened and sharpeaed countenance, 
before he said interrogatively— 

“«¢ Not come yet, Carolyn?” 

<< No, sir!”? answered the young lady rising and putting 
off her father’s caressing arm, and her own humiliating des 
pondency, with a proud and queenly air. 

« Well!” said the old man, with sudden energy, * I wILt 
certainly now ride up to Hardbargain and know the reason. 
Danpy!—my horse, there! Bring him back!—I’ve not 
done with him!” 

“‘ Father!” said Carolyn, seizing his hand, and detaining 
him, while she raised her head and looked and spoke in a 
manner that reminded him more strongly than ever of her 
arrogant mother, * Father, no, you will not go! No, no, 
father, if you have any love for me, any respect for the 
memory of my dead n-other, do not subject her daughter and 
yours to such a mortifi:ation! No, father, if he never comes, 
never go after him !” 

“ You’re a fool, girl!” cried the old man, breaking away 
from her, ‘a palpable fool!—You were a fool for quarreling 
with him and sending him away, and now you are a greater 
fool for persisting in the quarrel. ‘ Mortification,’ indeed! 
Who'll be the most mortified this evening, I wonder, ¢ if he 
never comes? What the deuce are we to say to the people 


L144 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 


wno will cume here this evening to see you married? Tell 
me that ?”° 

Before she could say another word, a large family carriage 
ri lled down the road, and turned and entered the lawn. 

Carolyn sank back in her seat, nearly swooning with the 
swift hope and fear that strove almost to agony as she gazed. 

It looked so like Mrs. Clifton’s carriage. 

It was not, however. It contained the very earliest of the 
wedding guests, who, coming from a distance of thirty miles, 
had set out early enough to arrive in time to secure a whole 
afternoon’s rest and” refreshment before dressing for the 
evening. This was customary with those coming from afar. 

Old Mr. Clifton went down the steps, to receive his guests. 

Carolyn arose and withdrew into the house, fortunately 
before she had been recognized by the visitors; for it would 
have been shockingly out of all etiquette for a bride to be 
visible on her wedding-day before the wedding-hour. 

When Mr. Clifton had ushered his guests into the drawing- 
room, he returned to the piazza to give some directions con- 
cerning the stabling of the horses, for where so many animals 
were expected to be provided for, it required some extra 
thought and care in their bestowal. While still giving his 
orders, he saw his younger daughter riding slowly up to the 
house. Pleased to see her return in safety, in spite of his 
evil forebodings of the morning, and thinking besides that 
she could give him some news of the laggard bridegroom, he 
hastened to meet her and lift her from the saddle, with a 
joyous— 

“Well, my darling! well, my damask rose-bud! Back 
in time, according to promise, eh ?” 

But at the sight of her father, the girl’s face flushed and 
paled so swiftly, her bosom rose and fell so rapidly, her 
whole frame was so agitated, her manner so confused, that 
tne old man was seized with alarm and exclaimed, hur- 
riedly— 

‘‘ In the name of Heaven, my dearest child, what is the 
matter ?”? 

But Zuleime, incapable of reply, looked as if she would 
sink into the ground. 

Mr. Clifton’s first definite thought was that some accident 
or catastrophe had befallen the bridegroom. 


WOMAN’S PRIDE. 1438 


“© Good Heaven, Zuleime, what has happened? Where 13 

Archer Clifton? Speak—has he come to any harm?” 
_ Much relieved that her father’s suspicions had fallen out 
of the true track—yet still considerably shaken, Zuleime re- 
plied, in a faltering voice, that Captain Clifton had received 
orders, and had departed that morning with Lieutenant 
Fairfax for Winchester, where their regiment was quartered, 
and that Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, desired to see Mr. 
Clifton as soon as possible. Without another word—totally 
‘ansuspicious that Mrs. Fairfax stood before him—the old 
man threw himself on horseback, and rode furiously toward 
Hardbargain. 

Mrs. Frank Fairfax, our runaway daughter, and widowed 
bride, stole to her own little room to weep in secret, a littlo 
over her fault, but a great deal over the absence of and the 
danger about to befall her husband. 

Dinner was served without Mr. Clifton, Miss Clifton, 
Zuleime, and the Misses Cabell. Mrs. Georgia Clifton alone 
entertained the newly arrived company. This did not oeca- 
sion remark. Mr. Clifton was known to be absent, and it 
was customary, as I said before, for the bride and her 
attendants to be invisible. 

In the meantime, Carolyn Clifton sat in her chamber—- 
pride, love, regret, anger, hope, fear—all good and evil pas- 
sions striving in her soul, or in turn holding the mastery over 
it. It was drawing near the hour when she should commence 
her bridal toilet, if indeed any bridal array was to be assumed 
that evening. Amidst all her keen anxiety, she dreaded lest 
some one should come in and tell her it was time to dress. 
What should her proud heart permit her to explain to such 
aone. She need not have feared interruption, however. 

The Misses Cabell, her bridesmaids, it is true, sat together 
in their chamber very impatiently awaiting a message from 
the bride—very impatiently, indeed, for after her ceremonious 
dressing. they had their own very elaborate toilet to make. 
But they would not enter her dressing-room unsummoned, 
or at least until they should receive from some member of the 
family a suggestion that it was now proper to do so. And 
no one thought or remembered to give them the hint. 

Mrs. Georgia Clifton—self-convicted of being the origina- 
tor of all the great trouble that had befallen, and the greater 


146 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 


that was about to befall the house—kept herself as much as 
vossible aloof. ; 

And Zuleime was as-yet too deeply absorbed in the con- . 
templation of her own recent bridehood, and the sorrow of 
her widowhood, to think of anything else. 

Meanwhile old Mr. Clifton had ridden as for life up to 
Iardbargain, thrown himself from his horse, flung the bridle 
upon his neck and let him go loose, while he himself rushed 
up the stairs and into the hall, and without the ceremony of 
a rap, burst into the quiet presence of Mrs. Clifton as she 
sat sewing in her shady parlor. She arose calmly to receive 
him; and the very quietness of the lady threw the excited 
old gentleman off his guard, and out of his politeness, and 
luto a rage. 

‘Well, madam!” he exclaimed, throwing his hat down 
with a thump into a chair, and tramping up and down the 
floor. ‘ Here’s a pretty state of affairs !” 

‘- Mr. Clifton, you are excited.” 

‘Yes, madam, I Am excited!” interrupted the old man— 
‘svery much excited, madam! Very much excited, indeed, 
madam! Where is Archer Clifton? tell me that!” 

“Mr. Clifton, sit down and compose yourself !” 

‘‘ Compose myself! Compose myself with a prospect of 
three hundred people pouring into my house to-night, each 
one of them agape to see a wedding, and to have to tell them 
there will be no wedding !” 

“Mr. Clifton, you can’t regret this circumstance more 
than I do!” 

“T don’t regret it at all, ma’am!_ I rejoice at it, ma’am! 
I congratulate myself and my daughter, ma’am! But Til 
have satisfaction, ma’am! I’ll have satisfaction, ma’am!” 
said the old man, wiping the perspiration from his red face. 

“Satisfaction for what you rejoice at, Mr. Clifton?’ in- 
quired the lady, smiling at his unreasonable anger with aer- 
self. | 

“6 |’1]—-yes—IT’ll have satisfaction, ma’am !” 

“From whom? From me? Do you intend to call me 
out as my son’s representative? Do you wish to compel me 
to ight a duel; or to make an apology—which ?’ inquired 
the lady, coolly. 

“Tem it, mem, P’JII—T’ll have satisfaction .”? exclaimed 


WOMAN’S PRIDE. 147 


the old man, growing shorter and shorter in his syllables. 
‘ T’}]—I’ll write to the Colonel of the regiment! DVH—TIll 
make the matter known to the Major General of the Army! 
Pll—yes, dem-me! [ll go to Washington and tell the Presi- 
dent! Jl have that young rascal cashiered, and broken and 
dismissed from the service !” 

“What! all three! Why, that is passing cruel! Quite 
as bad as being killed and murdered, and mortally wounded!” 
said the lady, smiling at his insane vehemence. 

“Dem it, mem! don’t take my words up!” he exclaimed, 
stamping up and down the floor, and then breaking out into 
vituperative abuse of Archer Clifton, all addressed to Mrs. 
Clifton, who, though becoming very much agitated, now pre- 
served a dignified silence. 

“‘ Mr. Clifton forgets that he is a man, and that he speaks 
to a woman!” said a stern, but low-toned voice. 

And the old gentleman turned to see Kate Kavanagh, 
‘severe in youthful beauty,” standing within the door; yes, 
in beauty, for her slight figure was drawn gracefully up—her 
bosom heaving, her fine head erected, her cheeks crimson, 
and her eyes intensely brilliant with the just indignation that 
moved her soul, as she walked straight up te Mrs. Clifton, 
and said— 

“‘ Dearest lady, allow me—do allow me to attend you to your 
own room, and be your substitute here, in waiting upon Mr. 
Clifton.” 

“© No, Kate—no, my dear girl. I have to talk rationally 
to the man as soon as he comes to his senses,”’ replied the lady. 
_ “Who is that girl?” inquired the old gentleman, not re- 
cognizing Kate under the new aspect—or affecting not to do 
so. ‘ Who is that girl, Mrs. Clifton?’ he repeated, while 
the lady gazed fondly on her protégé. 

«Miss Kavanagh; my son’s ward, and my own adopted 
daughter,” replied Mrs. Clifton, without withdrawing hor 
fond gaze from the face of Kate, who was blushing under it. 

“Miss Kavanagh, your son’s ward, and your own adopted 
daughter! A promising relationship all around, that is—up 
—on—-my—word—it—is !” said Mr. Clifton, very deliber- 
ately. <‘ However,” he added, “she has brought me to re- 
flection, for which I thank her. And Mrs. Clifton, I feel 
eerry and mortified that I have been betrayed into some vio 


148 WOMAN’S PRIDE 


lence of speech and manner; it is a family failing, you know. 
Pray pardon me.” 

«Mr. Clifton, please to sit down near me. My voice is 
not strong. It may be disquietude, but I find a difficulty in 
raising it, or in keeping up a running conversation.” 

«< My dear sister, I am afraid your lungs grow weak. IL am 
indeed! I have noticed it before. I have said the same to 
Georgia and to Carolyn! Indeed, my dear sister Clifton, 4 
wish you would take care of yourself. I was.a brute to throw 
myself into a passion in your presence. I was, indeed! J 
see it has overcome you! Kate Kavanagh, my dear, you 
were perfectly right. I did forget myself. And you were 
a fine girl to recall me. Give me your hand, my dear.” 

Blushing deeply, as was her wont when praised, Kate gay 
her hand, saying—half apologetically, half appealingly— 

‘‘Mrs. Clifton is not strong, sir. She should not be 
agitated, especially so soon after her son has left her.” 

‘¢ T know she is not strong! My dear sister, I wish you’d 
be careful of yourself! I do, indeed! You’re not strong.” 

“ After fifty, we do not grow strong as we grow old,” said 
the lady, pointing to a chair by her side, and indicating that 
he should take it! He did so. And then Mrs. Clifton 
turned to Kate, and said— , 

« Now Catherine, my dear, I wish you to go »p into my 
chamber and amuse yourself with a book, white I have a 
confidential talk with Mr. Clifton.” 

Kate immediately arose, courtesied, and left the room. 

Mrs. Clifton turned to her brother-in-law, aud said, in 
quiringly, “¢ You know the cause of this lovers’ quarrel ”? 

‘©Of course I do, madam! Satan fly away with them 
both! I know all about it! It was about her— up stairs!” 
he replied, indicating Kate Kavanagh by a crook of his thumb. 

«Yes; it was about Kate. But it was very absurd '!” 

«¢ Now, I don’t know that ma’am !” 

‘But it certainly was—ridiculous! Mr. Clifton! she, 
(Catherine, knows nothing about it! Does not even dream 
that she herself had the remotest connection with the quarrel, 
and I do hope and trust, that she never may suspect it. What 
I wish to say to you, is plainly this: That I know enough 
of human nature generally, and of young people particularly, 
and of Archer and Carolyn individually, to feel sure trat tris 


WOMAN’S PRIDE. 149, 


very absurd and extremely inconvenient quarrel and separa- 
tion—” 

“Yes, very extremely inconvenient, indeed ! 199 emphatically 
interrupted the old man. 

* Ts only temporary—” 

“«¢ Yes, ma’am, but that don’t make it the less embarrass- 
ing—the less inconvenient!” 

“‘T know it! Hear me out!” 

“What the deuce, ma’am, are we to do with the people 
who are coming to the wedding even now ?” 

«¢] am about to tell you, if you will quietly listen to me.” 

cWell! well Yes, ma’am! I beg ars pardon—i am 
all attention.’ 

“ Caroly rn; ' am sure, already regrets her hasty violence 
of temper.” 

«Yes! that she does! It’s easy to see that!” 

«; And Archer, who is slower to anger and slower to re- 
pentance—though deeper and stronger in both for being 
slow—Archer, in a very few days, will bitterly repent the 
step he has taken, more especially as being on his Western 
march, it will be impossible to retrace it. Under these cir- 
cumstances, this is what you must say to the assembled 
company to-night :—You. must tell them, that last night a 
peremptory order arrived for Captain Clifton to join his regi- 
ment immediately ; and that the marriage is deferred for the 
present. Let the company then enjoy themselves as at a ball. 
And all will go off well, and without scandal. I will be 
present myself, as the representative of our side of the house. 
Isent for you, Mr. Clifton, to give you this advice, and to 
suggest this plan of action in meeting the embarrassing diffi- 
culties of this evening. I should not propose this, if I were 
not sure that the marriage 7s only deferred—that if the par- 
ties live, it will assuredly take place. Iam certain it will, 
Mr. Clifton! I am willing to pledge my own truth and honor 
on it, and become responsible for it! The plan [ propose to 
you for meeting the guests this evening, is truest, wisest and 
best—th:nk of it!” 

“T do not think of it at all! Isee its excellence at a 
glance. I spring to meet it! I embrace it! I hug it to my 
heart! Oh, Mrs. Cliftor, you are our deliverer! “Oh, Mrs, 
Clifton! you are the great-grand-daughter of Oliver Cromvet!, 


150 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 


the general, the conqueror, the deliverer, the statesman, the 
politician, the diplomatist, the everything at an emergency !— 
You’ll see how gloriously Pll execute your orders! You'll 
make me Lieutenant-General when you are Lady Protector 
of the Commonwealth!” exclaimed the old man, starting up 
and clapping his hat upon his head, and joking like a buy, 
for very joy that his dificulty was smoothed. He shook hands 
with Mrs. Clifton, begging her not to be late, as he should 
want the encouragement of her presence in order to enable 
him to make his speech. Then he mounted his horse, and 
rode rapidly away down the mountain-path to Clifton. When 
he arrived at home, he found the lawn already covered with 
carriages, horses and servants, and the piazza, halls, and all 
the first floor rooms, thronged with company. He passed 
through them all, bowing right and left and hastened to his 
daughter’s room. Mr. Clifton had some doubts about getting 
his proud daughter to consent to the wise plan suggested by 
his sister-in-law. But he meant to carry his consent by a 
coup-de-main. So he pushed open her door, burst into her 
chamber, and threw himself, puffing, blowing, and perspiring, 
into the nearest chair, exclaiming— 

“¢ He’s gone, Carolyn! He’s clear gone, confound him !” 
- Carolyn drew nearer her father, and gazed into his face, 
to read there the confirmation of what she scarcely could be- 
sieve. The old man wiped his streaming face with his hand- 
kerchief, and stuffed it again into his pocket, exclaiming— _ 

“Yes! he’s gone! gone! gone! gone!” Then opening 
wide his arms, he murmured, “ But never mind, my dear 
ehild! you’ve got your old father left to love you, and to 
avenge you, too, if needful! Don’t grieve! Come to my 
bosem! Don’t grieve!” 

““<¢ Grieve,’ sir!” exclaimed the imperious girl; elevating 
her queenly head, “we do not grieve for a traitor! We 
pronounce sentence on him, and execute it!” 

‘True! true! my noble girl! There spoke your mother’s 
daughter! Yet—” suddenly cried the old gentleman, as by 
a quick recollection and revulsion of feeling, “ what a devil 
of a kettle of fish this is, my dear! Blame the fellow, what 
are we to do? Deuce take the man—what are we to say to 
the people down stairs? Say, Carolyn! Woman’s wit is 
quick' Can you think of anything ?” 


WOMAN’S PRIDE. 151 


Carolyn stcod in proud and bitter thought for some minutes, 
and then she smiled, with a scornful smile, and said— 

“Do nothing, sir! Let all go on as was planned! Let 
the band of music take its plaze in the saloon! Let the 
wedding guests come, and be received! And then leave all 
the rest to me! And now, my dear father, pray excuse me, 
as it is time to dress.” 

“To dress! Why, Carolyn, what do you mean? Are 
you mad? Dress for what?’ asked the old gentleman, 
anxious to know if perchance her idea in any way resembled 
the plan adopted by himself, from Mrs. Clifton’s suggestion. 

‘¢No, sir! I am not mad. § My pulse, as yours, doth 
temperately keep time,’ ” said the young lady, extending her 
hand to the bell-rope, and ringing a peal that presently 
brought her woman hurrying up stairs and int her presence. 

“Darky!” said she addressing her attendant, “ go to Miss 
Zuleime, and to the Misses Cabell, and let them know that I 
have waited for them some time.” The old handmaid went 
cut, and Carolyn turned to her father, and said, “My dear- 
est father! when I am dressed I will send for you, and we 
will have a conversation, in which I will tell you my simple 
plan for getting through the evening. I have not quite ma- 
tured it yet! Ah! here are the girls! Good evening for a 
couple of hours, father !” 

She opened the door for her father, who just escaped the 
young bridesmaids, who were coming in. 

He went out muttering— 

“TI don’t know what she means. I suppose I can have 
confidence inher. At least I must for the present, and then, 
there is Mrs. Clifton’s plan.” He went into his own room 
and errayed himself in festive garments for the occasion, and 
then went below stairs to groan inwardly over the numerous 
arrivals of guests, whose carriages thronged the lawn, and 
whose servants crowded the piazza, hall and entries. Pre- 
seytly a servant approached him, and said, respectfully, in a 
low voice— | 

<¢ Miss Clifton’s compliments, sir, and will see you in her 
dwn room.” 

The old gentleman hastened thither. He found his daugh. 
ter ready dressed, and quite alone. Her bridesmaids had 
gene to make their own toilets. 


153 WOMAN’S PRIDE. 


«¢ Father !” she said, “I will not wear the willow for a re- 
creant lover! Ihave determined that the festivities shall go 
on tynight. I will go down and lead off the first dance my- 
self, You, my father, may explain, as you please, that the 
marriage is broken off, but that the music, dancing, and feast- 
ing are not arrested for that reason.” 

The old man had determined within himself what to speak, 
but he answered— 

“¢ My dear child, are you equal to it ”” 

“© Equal sir? ‘Try me!” 

“Very well, my dear. Come And I will say—what is 
proper upon the occasion.’ 

In the meanwhile the splendid company assembled in the 
brilliantly lighted saloon, awaited with great impatience the 
entree of the bridal train. 

Made conspicuous in that gorgeous assembly by his black 
gown and bands, sat the clergyman who was to perform the 
ceremony. 

Georgia—darkly, resplendently beautiful as ever, moved 
gracefully through the crowd—full of gracious courtesy, yet 
flushed, anxious, feverish—half fearing that the bridegroom 
would appear at this last moment. ‘This fear was aroused 
by the presence, and the calm, cheerful, self-possessed looks 
of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. At length light steps were 
heard in the hall, The doors of the ga aloon were thrown 
open. And all eyes were turned to see the wedding pro- 
cession enter. But instead of a bridal train, came old 
Mr. Clifton, leading in his daughter Carolyn. The surprise, 
the wonder of the company was at first silent and breathless 
as it was profound. But soon a low whisper arose, and like 
a low breeze in the Jeaves, passed from one to another, until 
the room was in a general buzz. 

Mr. Clifton led his daughter into the centre of the saloon, 
and with her still hanging on his arm, turned and faced the 
company, waiting until they should be silent before he would 
speak. The father and daughter, as they stood there, pre- 
sented a fine, imposing appearance. Both were arrayed witk 
the gorgeous splendor that prevailed at that day. 

The old gentleman had his snow-white hair turned back 
off his forehead, and carried all down to the nape of his 
neck, where it was plaited into a queue, and adorned with a 


WOMAN’S PRIDE. 153 


Yarge white satin bow, both snowy plait aud how in pleasant 
relief against the back of the dark crimson velvet coat—his 
vest and small clothes were of white satin, and his long hose 
of white silk were fastened to the small-clothes below the knee 
with white satin bows and gold buckles—his slippers were 
of crimson morocco, with high heels, large bows, and gold 
buckles. His dress was rather antiquated even for that day. 
And he stood there waiting for silence with the suave and 
stately courtesy of the old school gentleman. 

Very much like a queen looked the beautiful Carolyn, but 
very little like a bride, either in her dignified self-possession, 
or in her magnificent array. Her fair hair was carried up 
above her forehead, and dressed high, in the regal style of 
that day. Its rich waves and bands were wreathed with 
pearls, and adorned with a plume of white ostrich feathers, 
powdered with minute silver spangles. Her neck and arms 
were bare, but adorned with pearls, and softly shaded with 
the finest lace at the edge of the boddice and sleeves. Her 
dress was of rich blue satin brocade, made with long waist, 
sharp pointed stomacher, and flowing sleeves and flowing 
skirt—the edges of the skirt finished with a very deep border 
of silver embroidery ; a lighter border of the same running 
around the sleeves; the stomacher was embroidered with sil- 
ver and pearls. Over her skirt she wore a train of splendid 
lace, lightly embroidered with a running vine of silver. She 
toyed with an elegant fan of carved mother-of-pearl and 
marabout feathers. She stood there, as I said, not at all 
like a bride, either in her gorgeous apparel, or her self-assert- 
ing manner. She stood there with a gay, proud air, beneath 
which none could have discerned the deeply humiliated spirit 
of the arrogant woman, or suspected the wounded and 
breaking heart of the forsaken bride.—When the murmur of 
voices which had greeted their entrance had subsided, and 
silence was restored, Mr. Clifton bowed deeply, and—in the 
somewhat high-flown grandiloquence of style he had once 
seen exhibited by a manager of a city theatre, when apolo- 
gising for the non-appearance of the evening’s star—spoke 
as follows: ‘¢ Ladies and gentlemen, the distinction of your 
presence here this evening, has been prayed that you might 
give the honor of your countenance to the espousals of my 
u phew and daughter. You have graciously accorded us the 


154 WOMAN’S PRIDE 


dignity of your society here for that purpose.” (An cmbar 
rassed pause, while the assembly listened in breathless curi- 
usity and expectation, and he continued,) “ Ladies and gentle. 
men, ‘man proposes, but God disposes. The great Arbiter 
of destiny has ordained the issue of events otherwise than 
as we had hoped, planned, and expected. Even last night 
suddenly came a peremptory order from head-quarters, to 
Captain Clifton, to jein his regiment instantly for the purpose 
of taking the command of a detachment of cavalry, to march 
immediately to the Indian frontier to put down an irruption 
of the Shoshowanawas! Ladies and gentlemen !” (continued 
the old gentleman, warming up with his subject,) “ you know 
the stern, uncompronising ‘duty of the soldier at such a cri- 
sis. One syllable—one single syllable comprehends his in- 
supportable obligation— Go.” The man, the lover, the 
bridegroom must give place to the soldier. As our greatest 
poct, Walter Scott, has it,—the soldier at the sound of the 
trumpet must 
‘“¢¢ Leave untended the herd, 
The flock without shelter, 


The dead uninterred, 
The bride at the altar.’ 


“ Ladies and gentlemen, our gallant Captain Clifton has 
literally left his ¢ bride at thealtar.? But soldier’s love may 
not mourn bridegroom’s loss. Nor may we deny ourselves 
the distinction and joy of your presence for the whole night 
—nor,”’ (the old man was unconsciously sliding from his 
lofty magniloquence down to the plain vernacular,) “ nor 
must I disappoint these young men and maidens of their 
dance to-night. Ho! music there! Strike up the liveliest 
quadrille air upon your list. Let them dance to the briskest 
music while they are fresh. Charley Cabell, my boy, come 
here and lead out your cousin Carolyn !” 

Major Cabell advanced, and with much grace and dignity 
led Miss Clifton to the head of the quadrille, as the nusie 
pealed forth. 

‘“‘ Young gentlemen, select your partners!” exclaimed tho 
old man, adding example to precept, by choosing the youngest 
and prettiest girl in the room, and leading her to the place 
right onposite his nephew and daughter. Soon all the sur- 
prise and disappointment were forgotten in enjoyment. The 


199 


WOMAN’S PRIDZ?Z 15a 


evening was spent in the gayest hilarity—Carolyn Clifton, 
the forsaken bride, apparently the gayest of the gay. So 
gay, indeed, was Miss Clitton, that she drew upon herself the 
severe animadversions of scveral ladies present, who affirmed 
that her conduct was heartless in the extreme; to laugh and 
sing and dance and jest with such thorongh abandonment to 
pleasure, just after the departure of her lover to brave the 
ghastly horrors of Indian warfare. Much more did they 
approve of the pensive manners of Zuleime. Poor Zuleime 
was all unskilled in self-control—her heart was “ exceeding 
sorrowful,” and so she let it appear. The company separated 
at a very late hour that night, or rather a very early hour 
of the next morning. Those in the neighborhood departing, 
those from a distance retiring to the chambers to take some 
sleep before breakfast, after which they were to set out for 


£56 THE SISTERS. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE SISTERS. 


Sister! since [ met thee last, 

O’er thy brow a change hath past; 

In the softness of thine eyes, 

Deep and still a shadow lies; 

From thy voice there thrills a tone, 
Never to thy childhood known; 
Through thy.soul a storm hath moved, 
Gentle sister, thou hath loved. 





OvrrTASKED, weary and exhausted by her long efforta 
Carolyn Clifton sought her own chamber, and threw herself. 
a!| splendidly arrayed as she was, upon her bed. She had 
no fear of interruption, for it was not yet daybreak, and her 
woman woald not be up for several hours. So she was sur- 
prised, and not at all pleased when a gentle rap came to the 
door. She would not answer or move to let the rapper know 
that she was awake. She was weary, weary with acting for 
ene night, and needed rest. But after the unknown had 
rapped two or three times, the door was gently opened, and 
the sweet voive of Zuleime was heard to say— 

“Sister, I know you are not asleep—will you let me come 
in?’ And without waiting for an answer, she entered, and 
softly closed the door, and came to the bedside, saying—* I 
heard you when you came up and threw yourself down on 
the bed, and I knew you were not asleep—let me stay with 
you, dear sister, won’t you 2” 

“No, no, Zuleime, I wish to sleep,” said Carolyn, still 
pressing both hands to her throbbing temples. 

‘Well, then, dear Carolyn, let me undress you, you can 
never compose yourself in that dress ;”’ and the affectionate 
girl began to take off her slippers and stockings, saying—* I 
can take off all the small articles, and unlace your stomacher 
without disturbing you, sister, and then you need not stand 
4p more than a minute to disrobe.” 


THE SISTERS. 157 


In indifference or abstraction, Miss Clifton permitted the 
gentle girl to unclasp all her jewels, and loosen her dress, 
without ever removing her hands, clasped tightly upon her 
temples, till Zuleime, wishing to take down the elaborate 
coiffure, gently withdrew them, and unwound the strings of 
pearls, and unfastened the plume of feathers. When the 
affectionate girl had laid aside all these glittering gewgaws, 
and freed her long, fair hair, and relieved her oppressed and 
fevered head, the proud and scornful Carolyn, subdued by 
the gentleness of her sweet, only sister, looked in her face, 
read there a strange sympathy, delicate as it was deep, and 
suddenly put her arms around her neck, drew her head down 
to her own, and kissed her fondly, murmuring— 

»« Qh, Zuleime! my child, my child! if you knew—” 

“1 do know, dearest Carolyn! Dearest sister, I do know 
it all’ all! and feel it—feel it from the bottom of my heart! 
That is the reason I came in, Carolyn! But I did not come 
in te disturb you, even by my sympathy. I came in to put 
you ‘o sleep. Stand up, dearest Carolyn, and drop these 
heyy robes, and I will throw this light wrapper around you, 
an? then you can lie down again—there ! 

© Oh! sleep!—when shall I sleep again ?”’ bitterly asked 
C>rolyn, as Zuleime laid her head tenderly back upon the 
freshened pillow. 

“Well, don’t talk, dear Carolyn, and you will see that 
God will send sleep.”? And Zuleime cooled her brow by 
passing over it several times a lump of ice in a napkin, and 
Jaid down by her side, and fanned her, in that measured, 
monotonous time, so inducive to slumber. So slowly she 
fanned her, resisting all her attempts to enter into conversa-= 
tion, until wearied nature yielded, and Carolyn was asleep. 
Then, as it was morning, Zuleime hoisted the windows, to 
admit a fresh current of air, but left the blinds closed, to 
exclude the light. Next, she put all Carolyn’s things care- 
fuliy away, and silently restored the room to order. Then 
she laid a folded napkin, dipped in ice-water, over the still 
burning brow, and cautiously left the room, to go and order 
toa and toast to be ready for Carolyn as soon as she should 
awake. She found the house below stairs in a great but 
comparatively silent bustle. The servants, who had scarcely 
retired the uight previous, were engaged in clearing away 


. 58 THE SISTERS, 


the disorder of the saloon, parlor and dining-room, ant. in 
laying the cloth for breakfast for the numerous visitors who 
had remained over night. Zuleime passed on to the kitchen, 
and gave her orders, and then silently stole up stairs again 
to her sister’s room. 

Carolyn slept long and heavily. Several hours yassed 
before she awoke. When she opened her eyes, and fixed 
them gratefully upon Zuleime, she raised her arms, again 
embraced her, saying— 

“You have comforted me, dear Zuleime.” 

“And I will comfort you more, dear sister. I know how 
to do it. How do you feel, Carolyn ?” 

“ Better—my head clearer—my nerves steadier—but a 
weary weight at my heart.” 

‘“¢ It shall go away, Carolyn. I know how to drive it away. 
But first you must take something.” 

And Zuleime rang the bell, and told the servant who ap- 
peared, to bring Miss Carolyn some fresh tea and toast. 

While he was gone after it, Zuleime bathed her sister’s 
face and hands, and combed out her hair, and by the time 
she was made comfortable, the servant re-appeared with the 
refreshments. 

After Carolyn had breakfasted lightly, (and this was the 
first food she had Yowes for thirty-six hours,) she fell ex- 
hausted back upon her pillow, and said— 

“TI cannot appear this morning, Zuleime! Iam tired o1 
acting a part!” 

“ You need not do it, dear Carolyn! The people have 
breakfasted, and are almost all gone—and the others are 
going. Carolyn, dear, I saw rcher when he went away—” 

Miss Clifton was still too proud to make a comment. 

“ Carolyn, he looked broken-hearted, despairing—indeed 
he did! Oh, Carolyn! I think if he could have hoped that 
you would have made up with him, he would have let his 
regiment go to perdition rather than not hastened to your 
feet !” 

«* Why did he not try, then ?” 

“Oh, sister, you banished him, and men have some pride. 
fle waited for your relenting, I feel sure !” 

Carolyn remembered, with bitter regret, her refusal to let 
her father go and recall him. 


THE SISTERS. 159 


“Carolyn, write to him. The detachment under his com- 
mand does not march from Winchester for nine days yet. 
Write, Carolyn—there is abundant time for him to get your 
letter and answer it before he goes. Then you will be re- 
conciled and happy. Everything will be restored, and you 
will comfort yourself by remembering that he would have had 
to have gone, any way, and that he is gone reconciled !” 

Miss Clifton shook her head. 

“No, Zuleime! I cannot! «I should not know how to 
write such a letter! What could I say to him?’ 

“Say! J should know what to say! If you have banished 
him, revoke your sentence of exile. If you have ascertained 
that vou have done him injustice, tell him 30. If you ara 
sorry that you parted in anger, let him know it. If you wish 
to hear from him before he goes, ask him to write to you.” 

“JT could not!—I could not! I never could write such a 
letter! My heart-strings would crack in the attempt ” 

“And are you so proud? And will you let him go forth 
to that ghastly Indian war—oh, God! my flesh creeps only 
to think of it!” said Zuleime, shuddering. « And will you 
not retract your false accusation, and revoke your cruel sen- 
tence of banishment, and express kind feelings and kind 
wishes for him about-to be exposed to such horrors?” 

““T can’t! Ican’t! Icannot! My heart-strings would 
snap with the effort! I can bear sorrow, but not humiliation! 
I can die, but I cannot be humbled !” 

“ You cannot be humbled by an act of justice, sister. That 
letter would be only an act of justice. And, oh! it would 
give him such happiness, and bring you such sweet peace, in 
place of all this heart-burning. Think of it, dear Carolyn !” 

While Zulcime spoke, a rap was heard at the door, and a 
servant appeared, and said that ‘ Marster wished to see Miss 
Zuleime in the parlor.” 

“Think of it, dear Carolyn,” said Zuleime, in a cheerful 
voice, kissing her sister’s forehead, and then hastening out 
of the room. 

Carolyn did think of it! The idea once presented, she 
could not banish it again ;—the hope of a reconciliation once 
raised, could not be suppressed! She could think of no- 
thing else. ‘It was but an act of common justice—it was a 
duty,” she repeated to herself, many times, to answer the ob 


[60 THE SISTERS. 


jections of her pride, which argued, “ It is undignified, un- 
womanly, to make this overture.” Then her love, her benevo- 
lence, her fears for him, pleaded, “ It will make him so happy 
—it will fill his heart with courage, and his arm with strength 
for the battle! And suppose he should be killed ?—what 
into#rable remorse will be added to your sorrow for him 
when you reflect that he died without a relenting word from 
you, who have been so cruelly unjust to him! That he died 
under your own sentence of éxile! Besides, if none of these 
things happen, can you bear these weary, weary days of 
estrangement, absence, and suspense —weary, weary days, 
that will slow ly, slowly drag themselves through weeks, and 
months, and years of time ? vp? Oh, no! No,no! She cannot 
bear that prospect! She will be just—she will do her duty, 
and satisfy her affection at the same time. Down, pride! for 
she will write that letter. She did write it. She did not read 
it over again, lest scorn should rise and compel her to hurl it 
dewn and set her heel upon it. She set her teeth almost 
grimly in her determination to protect that gentle, loving 
missive of sorrow and affection from an assault of her beset- 
ving sin, as she sealed and directed it. She then slipped on 
ner dressing-gown, and stole down the back stairs, where she 
found a boy lounging. She ordered him to saddle a horse 
immediately, and “take that letter to the post office. Nay, 
she waited till she saw the boy off, and was sure that none 
had seen him or the letter he carried. Then she returned 
to her own room, determining that no soul—not her father— 
not even Zuleime, should share her confidence and know her 
eondescension. 


MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. I6l 


CHAPTER XI. 


MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 


A father suffering, and a step-dame false, 
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady. 
SHAKSPEARE—CYMBELINE. 


ZULEIME went into the parlor and found her father alone. 
He was sitting in an easy-chair, doing nothing, but appa- 
rently waiting for her. 

“ Come hither, Zuleime,” he said. 

And when she went up to him, he drew her upon his knee, 
and passed his left arm around her waist, while, with his 
right hand, he smoothed her black hair. 

And he gazed fondly in her face. He noticed that her 
cheek was pale, and her countenance pensive, but hoped that 
it was from the excitement of the night before. He could not 
bear to think of its being regret for Frank. He feared to ask 
her the cause of her seriousness. He disliked to recall Frank 
in any manner to her recollection. He wished her to forget 
hin, if possible. At least, he would do so. 

_ &Zuleime,” he said, after he had stroked her hair some 
time, “ you know, my love, that your aunt Cabell, and your 
cousins, are goiug back to Richmond to-day.” 

« Are they, sir? I did not know it,” said Zuleime, turn- 
ing paler, with apprehension of something that might be 
coming. 

“Yes, my dear, they are. And, Zuleime—” here he 
paused—then he went on, “ you have been thinking, I sup- 
pose, that you should have to return with them, to enter 
upon your school duties again, as the first of September is 
so near.” 

“TJ had not thought of it, sir! So many things happen 
ing, put it out of my head. But Iam quite willing to go, 
and can be ready in half an hour.” 


162 MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 


«Thank you, my dear child. J am very glad to see you 
g0 prompt to oblige me; but, my dear Zuleime, I have good 
news for you.” 

“ Good news, sir?” 

‘Yes, girl! the best news! the very best news! news that 
young ladies always rejoice to hear !” 

“What news, sir?” she asked, fearfully. 

“Don’t whine, girl! it is not your sentence of death! It 
is your deed of emancipation! Your ‘free papers,’ as the 
niggers would say. You are not to return to school any 
more! Are you not surprised? Are you not rejoiced 
now 2?” 

Zuleime was not. She was anxious, foreboding. 

“ Why don’t you speak, my dear? Ain’t you glad you’re 
not going back to school, to leather shoulder braces and back 
boards, and square and compass rules and regulations, that 
mean nothing, unless they mean persecution and torture! 
Say, ain’t you glad ?” 

“JT think I had rather go back to school for the present, 
pir,” 

‘«< Nonsense, now, my dear! Ah! I see howitis! You 

want to return with your dear aunt Cabell, and the dear city 
cousins—especially cousin Charley! Eh, you monkey! You 
grow tired of the country and your old father, as soon as 
ever your aunt and cousins talk about returning to the city ! 
Ah! you rogue,” said the old man, chucking her under the 
chin, and devoutly praying that he might be right in his con- 
jecture—for, oh! that child’s happiness! It lay nearer his 
heart than anything else on earth or in heaven. 

“‘ Dear father !” she said, embracing him, “1 do not wish 
to leave you, indeed I do not. I prefer the country. And. 
J had rather never leave you, or my home.” 

“ Dear little rogue, now don’t tell me that! I know better 
you know! And it is quite natural, and nobody blames you 
The young bird must leave its nest, and the young girl her 
home, when she becomes a wife. Your mother left her pa- 
tents and came home here with her husband. So do not 
think, my love, that your old father will charge you with 
selfishness for wishing to leave him—no, not wishing to leave 
him, but wishing to go with one who is to be your hus 
gand ” | 


MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 163 


Yuleime dropped her head, to conceal the deadly pallor 
dhat crept over her face. 

“Yes, dear Zulcime, you will soon return to Richmond, 
though it will be not as a school-girl—but as a happy bride— 
as Mrs. Major Cabell! What a sonorous name and title for 
my little, romping Zuleime! Here, Charley Cabell! I have 
broken the ice, now come and speak for yourself!” exclaimed 
Mr. Clifton to Major Cabell, who was going by the door. 
Major Cabell came in, passing the old gentleman, who had 
seized his hat, and not trusting himself to look at his daugh- 
ter, rushed out of the room. Zuleime remained standing 
where he had placed her, when he put her off his knee— 
panic struck—stupid—until Major Cabell took her hand, 
and attempted to lead her to a seat, then snatching her hand 
away with a shudder, she asked almost wildly— 

‘¢ Cousin Charles, when does fatker want this marriage to 
come off ?” 

«As soon as my dearest Zuleime will consent to make me 
she happiest of men!” replied the common-place wooer, at- 
tempting to re-capture her hand, but she retreated shudder- 
mg, and asking, in a frantic tone and manner, in great con- 
trast to her calm words— 

«Cousin Charles, do me a favor! Do not press this mat- 
ver for a week or so.” 

“Heaven forbid that I should hurry a lady, though that 
lady be my own little cousin and betrothed—only fix the day 
and [ will rest content—so that it is not a far distant day,” 
he said, re-capturing her hand, throwing his arm around her 
waist, and drawing her towards him. 

“Please, don’t! Let me go, cousin Charles!” exclaimed 
the girl, in great distress, struggling to free herself. 

«<¢ Please, don’t let me go, cousin Charles!’ I don’t in- 
tend to, pretty cousin, until you tell me when you will give 
yourself to me!” replied Major Cabell, kissing her all tho 
more heartily because she strove to escape. 

“You know what I meant! Let me alone! It is un- 
manly to behave so! Don’t make me hate you!” was on 
her quivering lips and in her flashing eyes, as by a sudden 
effort she threw his arms off and sat down; but then she re- 
collected her fathe~, and the cruel power Major Cabell seemea 


164 MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 


to possess over him, and she choked down the indignaut 
words, and said instead— 

“Please, don’t hurry and worry me, cousin ‘Charles !— 
this is so very sudden! I am sure I never dreamed you 
wouid “ask for poor me for years to come yet. IJ am so 
young.” 

«<<¢So young!’ Ah, Zuleime, that is a piece of pretty little 
womanish hypocrisy—a little finesse that belongs to your 
character, and is inherited from your I'rench mother! ‘Se 
young!’ Now, my pretty childish cousin, you know yca 
have received an offer of marriage this very week! And 
that, indeed, has accelerated my proposal. Fair Zuleime, a 
man does not care to see his young betrothed bride courted 
by another !” 

“<1 know that!” replied Zuleime, in a peculiarly sad voice, 
moving to the other end of the room. 

The slightest gesture of avoidance of him by the girl, 
seemed to act as a provocative on him, so he followed her, 
and clasped her in his arms, and laughing, almost rudely 
kissed her, begging her between the kisses not to set his 
heart on fire by her charming prudery and petulance, but to 
fix the day, like a good, s sensible girl as she was. Almost 
frantic with rage and shame at being so freely handled, the 
Clifton blood rushed to her brain, and for getting her father’ 8 
interest and everything else, she dashed her hand violently 
into his face, and before he recovered from his astonishment, 
broke from him and escaped—her heart beating with one 
thought—one sudden, joyous thought—that come what might, 
she never could be either forced or persuaded into a marriage 
with Major Cabell, because she was already a wedded wife— 
no set of circumstances, whatever, could make it her duty, 
or make it even possible for her to marry Major Cabell. In 
all her sorrows, that was one blessed truth to sit down and 
rest upon. All her duty was now due to her husband. Ang 
with a youthful wife’s enthusiasm firing and strengthening 
her heart, she thought she should stand as upon a rock, 
secure against a sea of troubles. Poor child. she had yet 
to learn that no position founded on a fault is for a momen 
sife. Several things soon forced themselves upon her me 
mory and grieved her heart ;—her father’s unknown but 
sertain danger, her own promise of secrecy iv regard to her 


MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 165 


marriage, the necessity of giving some definite answer to 
Major Cabell, and the obligation pressing upon her to pre- 
vent, by all and any means, the highly improper and ex- 
tremely offensive demonstrations of passion from her suitor, 
She determined to write to Frank, tell him all that hed 
necurred, and ask his advice and direction; and to do this it 
was necessary to gain time, and to give no false promise in 
the interim. Already was Zuleime beginning to taste the 
bitter fruits of her stolen marriage, and might have exclaimed, 
in the perplexity of her distracted heart and brain— 


Oh, what a tangled web we weave, 
When first we venture to deceive. 


While Zuleime’s heart was beating so fast with many emo- 
tions, her father sauntered into the parlor, where he found 
Major Cabell caressing and soothing his afflicted face. 

«¢ Well, Charley, boy! How is it with you, eh? Could 
you win a hearing from my little girl, ch? Give her time, 
you know, eh?” said the old gentleman, affecting a lightness 
of heart which he was very far from feeling. 

To his-surprise, Major Cabell laughed heartily, still coax- 
ing his ill-used phiz. 

«¢ What’s the matter, Charley? What’s amused you, eh ?”’ 

‘Your girl! By my soul, Governor, I shall end in falling 
seriously in love with that girl! I didn’t fancy her much at 
first to tell you the truth! She wasentirely too good humored 
--always laughing. And I had a fancy for marrying a shrew, 
just for the spicy fun of taming one! The same instinct, 
Governor, that makes me like to spring upon the back of the 
most vicious horse I can find, and ride and lash and spur 
and fatigue the soul out of his body, until I break his back 
or his temper, one—eh, Governor ?” 

The old man’s florid cheeks became pale with rage, and he 
felt an impulse te kick the puppy out, but a terrible necus- 
sity tied his tongue and hands, and Charles Cabell went on 
laughing and talking to this effect :— 

‘«¢ Now, then, having a fancy to marry and tame a shrew— 

real live, vicivus, beautiful vixen—I did not want the 
apiciest part of the sport taken out of my hands by fathers 
and mothers and pastors and masters. I shouldn’t have 
thanked any of you for presenting me with a medel wife, 


166 MS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 


already smoothed down and polished to my hand. D—n 
your pretty pieces of perfection' Tl none of them—tflat, 
insipid nonentities !—formed and re-formed, and modelled, 
and re-modelled, and rubbed down and polished until they 
all look as much alike as beads on a string! No, none of 
your polished gems for Charles Cabell!—the bright, pure, 
rough, sharp ore! Now, of Zuleime, I thought her far too 
much educated—too good humored, too polite, too docile, 
too much of the young ‘ lady,’ too little of the wild young 
animal—and flat and insipid in consequence ; so I cared very 
little about her. But, ha, ha, ha! I never was more mis- 
taken in my life! She’s a prize, I tell you! <A prize of the 
frst class! Look you! I coveted a shrew! Lve found a 
virago! full of blood and fire! strong and vicious, I tell you! 
ha, ha, ha! Think of her dashing her littie hand in my face 
when I went to kiss her, and before I recovered my eyesight 
and senses, throwing me off as if I had been a child, and 
escaping! Ha, ha, ha' Sf under-estimated her strength !— 
Never mind! let the little tigress look out for the next time 
I get her in my arms ie 

The old man’s bosor was filled to bursting with suppressed 
passion, but he answered, calmly— 

“Oh! she’s young-—she’s young , a spoiled child—a spoiled 
child ; bs yatient with her—she means well—give her time— 
be pat ‘ert wh ber.” 

«Patient with her!? Why, uncle, I wouldn’t haye her 
a}ut different from what she is! She’s charming, delight- 
fw), piquart, spicy! ‘¢ Patient with her!’ Why, Gov’, I 
rhall end in falling desperately in love with her! But I say, 
nunc! make the little virago fix our marriage day, will you? 
[ have got to go out now and have Spitfire saddled; those 
fellows never draw the girth tight enough, or fix the bit firm 
enough—and I have to pull her head off to stop her some- 
times, for she is the foul fiend incarnate when she gets to 
running. Ill make Zule ride her sometime, to see which 
will get the better of the other. Say, Gov’, let me have my 
answer when I get back—do you hear.”? And seizing up 
his riding-whip and cracking it against his boots, he went | 
out 

The old man boiled over—he clenched his teeth, and 
shock his fist—nay, shook bis whole person, as he turned 


MRS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 167 


livid with rage; then his arms fell helplessly by his side— 
he sank into.a chair- dropped his face upon his hands, and 
groaned aloud. He felt a pair of arms encircling his nack, 
and a sweet voice murmuring in his ear—and he raised his 
head to see Zuleime, and to hear her ask in loving tones — 

«¢ Father, what is it?’ 

He put his hand tenderly around her waist, and drew her 
gently to his knee, and said, while he gazed remorsefully 
into her face— 

‘Tam a villain, Zuleime! A hoary-headed villain!” 

Zuleime placed her hand upon his mouth to stop the dread- 
ful words, and pressed her lips to his brow, with a look and 
manner of the profoundest love and veneration. | 

«Yes, a hardened, persevering sinner, Zuleime! For I 
intend to persevere! I intend to give you to Charley Cabell, 
my child,” he said, gently removing her hand, and still 
gazing on her. Ie continued—“*T love you so much, Zu- 
leime! I love you so much! But, dear child. He’s coming! 
Dear child, tell me when you will marry Charley—Tuesday 
three weeks or four weeks? Don’t let it be longer than four 
weeks, my girl!” 

“‘ Father! will you tell me why you wish me to marry 
cousin Charles ?” 

“JT cannot! I cannot! My child, I cannot. It is for 
your good, I hope! Some day I will, perhaps. Tell me 
now, that’s a good girl. What day will you give this little 
hand to cousin Charley ?”’ 

“‘ Father, I can’t possibly give an answer for a week yet, 
indeed, father, I cannot!” 

‘«‘ Come, now, nonsense, my child; why can’t you? Her? 
is Charley now! come!” 

“I cannot, father !” 

The old gentleman kissed, and coaxed, and almost wept; 
a mapuer of attack so hard to be resisted, that had Zuleime 
been really free, she would have sacrificed her own and 
Trank’s hopes, and yielded. But Zuleime was not free, and 
therefore was as firmly proof against persuasion, as she would 
have been against force. Two powerful motives operated im 
preventing her from confessing her marriage—first her pro- 
mise to keep it secret, and then the fear of precipitating 
aome violent scene between her father and cousin, or some 





168 MKS. FAIRFAX AND MAJOR CABELL. 


fata] catastrophe to the household. To end the 2onflict, and 
to gain time to consult Frank, by writing, was what she 
most wished now. Finally, she promised to give Major 
Cabell his answer in a week, and to marry him—if she should 
ever marry anybody. 

With this promise, Major Cabell seemed satisfied —and 
with his mother and sisters took leave of Clifton. Aad Zu- 
Ieime retired to her own room, full of self-reproack tay ber 
own deception. 


SUSPENSE. 162 


CHAPTER XII. 


SUSPENSE. 


Uncertainty! 
Fell demon of our fears!’ The human soul 
That can sustain despatr—endures not thee.—ANon. 


A wWEARY week passed away. Zuleime had written ¢o 
Frank, and Carolyn, we already know, had despatched a 
letter to Archer. But the week had passed away, and no 
answer to either had come from Winchester. Had the sisters 
confided in each other, such mutual confidence might have 
soothed the soul-sickening anxiety of one at least. Carolyn 
would have known that some accident must have prevented 
Frank Fairfax from receiving or answering the momentous 
letter of his youthful wife, and she would have felt that the 
same cause had probably operated in the case of Archer 
Clifton. But the sisters did not entrust their secrets to each 
other. Zuleime was withheld by her sacred promise. Caro- 
lyn by her pride. But the wife bore the pain of suspense far 
better than the maiden. The wife had perfect faith in her 
young husband, and knew that some adverse chance had 
hindered his getting or replying to her letter. The maiden 
knew that she had unjustly banished her lover. And she 
had no faith in the love that endureth all things. Carolyn 
had never suspected the depth of that calm, secure, habitual 
affection—which had from childhood grown—until now. 
While life and love and hope had flowed smoothly on, her 
emotions were serene and moderate. But now that the quiet 
stream had been stemmed by rocks and breakers, it was 
lashed into fury and roared in whirlpools. The calm senti- 
ment rose to turbulent, maddening passion. Her days were 
restless, her nights sleepless, until, as the week wore away, 
her nerves were wrought to such severity of tension, that you 
might kn>w that at the end of uncertainty, whether that were 


170 SUSPENSE. 


joy or sorrow, they must alike suddenly give way. Towards 
the last of the week, she had privately besought hcr father to 
ride to Winchester, and see the detachment off, and bring 
her the last news of it. The request had been confidential -- 
yet do you feel all that it had cost her haughty heart? 
During the absence of Mr. Clifton, suspense was wrought up 
to agony. Her days and nights were feverish, delirious, and 
so confused into each other, that she scarcely knew the fitful, 
disturbed visions of the night, from the wild and anxious 
broodings of the day. The day upon which her father was 
expected back, was the acme, the crisis of her suffering. 
Oblivious of pride and caution, careless of exposing herself 
to the malign sneers of Georgia, or the rude comments of the 
servants, she sat in the piazza, watching the road by which * 
the carriage should come—one wild, anxious, depairing hope 
possessing her. ‘ The drowning catch at straws ””—and she, 
in her despair, had clutched one mad possibility, and clung 
to it, until to her weakened, confused, insane soul, it seemed 
a probability, and then almost a certainty. It was the hope 
that Clifton might return with her father! Oh, yes! That 
Clifton might resign his commission and come back to Ler. 
Oh! if indeed he loved her, 2s he had a thousand times 
sworn, if he sorrowed over their estrangement only half as 
much as she did, no hope of glory, no fear of disgrace would 
keep him back. The more she brooded over this, the more 
likely, the more certain it appeared to be. And she sat and 
gazed up the dim forest road. 

The sun sank to the edge of the horizon, and lit up all the 
mountain tops with fire, and then went down. And when 
she could no longer see, she still sat and strained her ear to 
catch the distant sound of wheels. 

The moon arose, and flooded all the mountain scenery with 
silver light, and flashed upon that distant bend of the river, 
until it seemed a silver lake, lying among the dark hills, and 
pointed the peaks of White Cliffs, until they stood up and 
glittered, like an enormous row of spears, against the deep 
blue sky. 

At last, at last the very distant sound of wheels came 
faintly like a doubt to her ear, and faded away again. Then ~ 
it came more distinctly, nearer, and a moving object ap- 
peared upon the road. And she knew indeed it was her 


SUSPENSE. ng | 


father’s carriage. She saw and recognized it m the moon 
light. It turned into the lawn gate, rolled rapid)y around 
the cirenlar drive, and swept swiftly up to the entrance, 
where it stopped. The steps were let down, the door opened, 
and old Mr. Clifton got out, followed by—no one. 

Carolyn had bent eagerly, unconsciously forward ; now she 
started up and caught her father’s hand, and gazed silently, 
imploringly into his face, for the news she could not ask 
for. 

“The detachment has marched, my dear child! Marched 
the morning of the day upon which I reached Winchester, 
and two days before it was expected to have gone. So, you 
see, I could not get a sight of either Frank or Archer. ‘They 
were thirty miles on their road before I reached the city. 
Can’t think what could have been the reason of the new 
order, to anticipate their departure by two days. However! 
cheer up! No use fretting, my dear! No use fretting! The 
family have supped long ago, of course—have they kept my 
supper hot for me? JI amas hungry as an old wolf,” said 
the old man. 

Carolyn did not hear him. Her hold relaxed upon his arm, 
her hands flew up to her head, and she turned, as one struck 
with sudden blindness, and tottered into the house. It was 
so dark in the shady piazza, screened from the moonbeams 
by interlacing cypress vines, that the old man did not see her 
state. He hastened into the house, where another awaited 
him with equal anxiety. 

Zuleime’s private hope had been that Frank would seize 
the opportunity of Mr. Clifton’s visit, and confess his mar- 
riage, and invent some way of delivering her father from the 
toils of Major Cabell. 

“ What news, father?” she askea, meeting him in the hall. 

“¢What news? Why, I am as hungry as a bear, my 
pet! That’s the news! I stopped to supper at L } 
But, my life! They like to have poisoned me with fried 
_beefsteaks and heavy biscuits and green coffee. Couldn't 
touch a morsel, child! And now I am starved up to a savage 
pitch! What have you got for supper ?” 

“Turtle soup and old crusted port, among other things, 
father,” replied Zuleime, waving her own anxiety for the sake 
of satisfying him. 





172 SUSPENSE. 


“'T'URTLE soup! And OLD CRUSTED PORT ;” exclaimed 
the old man, in an ecstacy of delight. ‘ Why, where on earth 
did they come from ?”” 

‘The turtle came from a ship at Norfolk, and was sent 
liither by Major Cabell, who added a dozen of port of his 
own importation,” said Zuleime, dying with anxiety to hear 
from Frank. : 

« Ah-h-h-h! That was kind! He’s a fellow! He’ll make 
a magnificent husband and son-in-law, Zuleime! JI hope you 
know how turtle soup should be made ?”’ 

‘“‘ Father, I know it should be eaten quite /of, and it is on 
the table by this time. Come in.” 

The old man needed no pressing, but went into the dining- 
room, and sat down at the table, with a face radiant with de- 
light. Zuleime waited on him, although there was a servant 
in attendance. And when he had freely partaken of turtle 
soup, devilled crabs, a roasted fowl, etc., washed them down 
with port wine, she brought him a cup of fragrant Mocha 
coffee and his case of cigars. And he sipped the coffee with 
an air of infinite leisure, and then lit a cigar and puffed slowly 
away, as if eternity was before him. 

‘Father, what news from Winchester ?’ again asked Zu- 
leime, though ner hopes had fallen very low. ‘ What news, 
dear father ?” 

“ What’s that to you, my pet? Will you let me digest 
my supper in peace V” 

Zuleime sat down, but looked so anxious, that her very 
looks worried the old gentleman, and he said— 

“ Don’t you know, girl, that indigestion is very dangerous 
to a man of my time of life? It may bring on apoplexy! 
Don’t worry me!” 

Zuleime veiled her anxious gaze, but even then the pale- 
ness of her cheeks annoyed her father, and he testily in- 
quired— 

“‘ Now, what is it to you? I can understand Carolyn’s 
anxiety. I cannot comprehend yours at all! There, now 
Go and send my wife to me!” 

Zuleime arose to obey, but before she went. sne threw her 
arms around his neck, and asked— 

‘‘ Dearest father, on/y tell me! Where our friends wellt 
Slave they gone? Did they send any message ?” 


SUSPENSE. 178 


“Only answer you three questions at a time! That is 
reasonable! However, I can answer all in one. I have not 
seen our friends. Their detatchment left Winchestei twelve 
hours before [ reached there. And now [ll tell you what ~ 
did not like to tell Carolyn, poor girl! ‘Namely, that the da 
tachment marched two days earlier than was intended, upon 
account of dispatches received from Fort ————, praying for. 
speedy succor in a reinforcement. The savages have been 
massacreing and scalping there at a most tremendous rate! 
It is really a very dangerous service, Indian warfare! God 
grant that our young friends may return to us safe! Why 
don’t you go along and tell Georgia to come to me?” 

Zuleime kissed her father, settled the cushion under his 
feet, and went on her errand. That dispatched, she sought 
her own chamber, and lay down to collect her thoughts. No 
letter or message from her husband, and her promise of 
secrecy in regard to her marriage, binding on her as ever. 
And next week she must give an answer to her father for 
» Major Cabell. She was confident that one of two things had 
happened. Hither her letter had never reached Frank, or else 
his answer had been lost. And by the transaction only 
one week’s respite had she gained for her father—for next 
week her refusal must be decided and final, and then—what 
might not the consequence be to him? ‘These thoughts ex- 
cited her mind, and kept her awake. And despite her de- 
termination to sleep, and her efforts to do so, she heard every 
passing hour strike. It was soon after one o’clock that she 
had fallen into a fitful slumber, when she was awakened by 
the sound of a gay, high voice, intermingling merry words 
and joyous laughter. Indeed, there seemed to be not only 
one, but many voices, talking and laughing in the most jocund 
manner. And strangc—passing strange! it seemed to come 
from her sister’s room, whivh adjoined hers! She listened 
awhile; the words became fewer, but the laughter -grew 
wilder! And then it struck upon her frightened senses that 
Carolyn was a maniac, talking, laughing to herself! Spring- 
ing from her bed, and without even waiting to slip on a gown, 
she ran into the passage and knocked at her sister’s door, 
and attempted to push it cpen. It was locked on the inside, 
and all her efforts to force an entrance were vain, and all her 
rotreaties for admission were answered by peals of uncor 


11 


174 SUSPENSE. 


scious laughter. At last she ran to her father’s door, and 
rapped loudly, exclaiming— 

“Father, father! Get up! get up! Something, I am 
sure, has happened to Carolyn! Something dreadful! Get 
ap! get up!” | 

The old man was hard to awaken, even by the efforts of 
Georgia, who was aroused at once, and came and opened the 
door for Zuleime! And all this time the sound of loud talk, 
high Janghter, and wild snatches of song, as from several ex- 
cited people, rather than from one, issued from Carolyn’s 
chamber. At length, by the united exertions of his wife 
and daughter, the fatigued and drowsy old gentleman was 
aroused and placed upon his feet, and made to 


‘“ Understand a horror in their words— 
If not the words.”? 


Be threw on his shawl gown and hastened to Carolyn’s 
door, which was instantly forced open. 

And what a sight met their eyes! 

There stood Miss Clifton arrayed in her gorgeous brida 
costume, looking gloriously beautiful, though certainly as no 
bride ever looked before! The raging fever had given the 
brightness and richness of the carnation rose to her com- 
plexion, and imparted a supernatural light to her eyes, that 
burned and flashed, and seemed to strike fire as they sprang 
from one to the other of the intruders, with a mad, joyous, 
defiant glance’ 

The alarm of her father was unlimited, unspeakable! Ho 
darted from the room, and almost precipitated himself down 
the stairs in his haste to mount and dispatch a servant for 
the family physician. And while he was gone, Georgia and 
Zuleime, by coaxing and humoring the phantasy of the poor 
girl, succeeded in undressing her and putting her tu bed-— 
she still raving about her marriage, and sometimes breaking 
out into a wild laugh, and once telling Georgia that she, 
being a married woman, had no right or business to be offs 
ciating as bridesmaid. : 

It was near morning when the doctor came. After exame 
ining the state of the patient, he pronounced her disease to — 
be brain fever, brought on by over-excitement of the nervous 
system. He wrote prescriptions, and remained with her until 


a“ 


SUSPENSE, 175 


they were administered. And then he departed witn a 
promise to return early in the forenoon. 

Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, was summoned, and lost nc 
time in hastenmg to the sick room of her daughter-in-law, 
as she chose to call Carolyn. 

For many days the struggle between life and death went 
on, and no one, not even the medical attendant, was able to 
form an opinion as to which power would eventually conquer. 

Mrs. Clifton had taken her station by the bedside of the 
patient as permanent nurse, and she constantly refused to 
yield her post to any other person. And it was to her vigi- 
lant attention, quick perceptions, and intelligent treatment, 
that all the family ascribed the recovery of the girl. For the 
crisis came and passed, and Carolyn Clifton lived. 

But no sooner was the patient pronounced out of danger, 
and the excitement of anxiety over, than the nurse herself 
fell ill. And Mrs. Clifton, exhausted, prostrated, entered 
her carriage, and was driven to Hardbargain. 


Lio ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES 


CHAPTER XIU. 


ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 


The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bring 

In all her catalogue of suffering, 

An eating rust—the spirit’s direst pain— 

To love, adore—nor be beloved again, 

Or know between you lies a gulf that ever 

Your forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever—Mrs. Lewis. 


As soon as Mrs. Clifton reached home—leaning on the» 
erm of her maid, she walked up stairs and entered her son’s 
deserted room, and when her attendant had relieved her of 
scarf and bonnet, she lay down upon his lounge, and sent 
tlenny for Kate Kavanagh. In less than balf an hour Kate 
entered. And the lady turned to her and said— 

“‘ Catherine, my dear, I must take you into my confidence— 
yes, and into other people’s, too, whether they approve it or 
not. Draw Archer’s writing-desk up here to the side of the 
lounge. I want you to write a letter to him. Catherine’s 
brow crimsoned, and she trembled very much as she obeyed. 
‘My dear Catherine, I am sure you will be discreet, and 
never speak of what I am about to entrust to you. I can 
rely on you?” said the lady, interrogatively, raising those 
fever-brightened dark eyes to the girl’s face. Catherine 
nodded quickly, in her usual way, when the words would not 
come. ‘ You see, my dear child, this most unhappy quarrel 
hetween Carolyn and Archer, is causing a great deal of un- 
necessary suffering to both—and Carolyn, as the frailer of 
the two, is nearly dying under it. Her brain fever was 
caused by it. And it was as much as Dr. Barnes and my- 
self could do, to bring her safely through it with life and_ 
reason. This estrangement between them must not continue, 
or she will die. She is not so strong as she looks to be. 
Indeed, she is rery delicate, like her mother. Archer is far 
ou h*s Western march now, and: cannot return of course; 


ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. LTT 


but he must write to her, and comfort her. I wish you te 
write and tell him so. Now, then, child, you know the ob- 
ject. Open the desk, and lay out the paper, while I try to 
think what I want said, and how I want you to say it.” 
Catherine’s hands quivered as she turned down the leaf of 
the desk, and mechanically laid the paper out on the’ top. 
“ Just date it, dear child, and then I will tell you how to be- 
gin.’ Catherine dipped her pen in ink, and was just about 
to put it to paper, when something there caught and held her 
eyes, and she gazed with dilating pupils, and trembled more 
than ever. 

The paper before her was covered with a water-colored 
sketch of Marguerite, of France, at the sicge of Damietta. 
And th: .deal face of the royal heroine, was the real one of 
the humble Catherine herself. And in the corner of the 
paper were the initials A. C. He had taken Aer homely fea- 
tures as his notion of those of the heroic Queen of St. Louis. 
And as she gazed, her heart shuddered with a strange, wild 
emotion of blended wonder, joy and remorse. ‘The nature 
of the maiden was becoming vaguely intelligible to herself. 

And Mrs. Clifton did not see her trance, but lay upon the 
sofa very weary, with her hands pressed upon her temples, 
trying to settle in what manner she should address her. son 
upon this delicate subject.- And Catherine forgot everything 
in the sketch before her, and the tumultuous, blissful, painful 
emotions it excited. An abyss was suddenly thrown open 
in the depths of her heart, whose existence was unsuspected 
till now. Vow was she sorry that the marriage between 
Archer Clifton and his cousin, was broken off—by mutual 
consent? She tried very earnestly to feel sorry, for she be- 
lieved it her duty to be so. She forced herself to remember 
Carolyn’s illness, and Archer’s own suffering, in consequence 
of the estrangement between them. But, oh! there lay that 
picture before her eyes, with her own plain face idealized, 
glorified up to a high, pure, divine beauty, such as it had 
never, even in her highest, holiest, most inspired moods, pos- 
sessed. And a voice from her profound heart whispered— 
s¢ Oh, yes, and he could make me really beautiful and glories 
ous as his ideal there—for he could make me good, and glad, 
and great beyond whatever I could make myself—if he 
chose!" She reproached her heart severely for its seduces 


178 ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 


tive whisper. She offered up a silent prayer to God to for- 
give her, and save her soul from secret sin. She called her 
self foolish, presumptuous, treacherous. But, oh! in spite 
of all these, would sparkle up from the depths of her spirit, 
sprays of gladness, as if there had suddenly sprung within 
an everlasting fountain of joy. Yet again she blamed her- 
self inost bitterly. She repeated that despairing complaint 
or confession of David— The heart is deceitful above all 
things, and desperately wicked.’ She almost realized its 
truth. She silently cried to God to enter her heart, and ex 
pel its secret sin. 

“ Well, child! are you ready!” inquired Mrs. Clifton, 
withdrawing her hands from her temples, and looking towards 
the entranced girl. Kate did not hear or see, her soul and 
senses were absorbed in the subject before her. Yet she did 
not think or hope about the future. It was the present, the 
present that absorbed her heart, despite of will, resistance 
and conscience. 

“Kate! are you asleep or in a trance?” asked the lady, 
fazing at her. 

The maiden started, and blushed deeply. 

“Catherine! what are you thinking of?” she repeated, 
bxing her dark eyes upon the girl, until they seemed to burn 
Into her soul. 

Kate looked guilty and bewildered, recovering herself by 
an effort, and answered, almost at random— 

“ This is not letter paper, madam, it is Bristol board.” 

“Oh, well! there is writing paper in the other department 
of the desk, my child, get it out.” 

Kate examined the contents of the desk, and then re: 
plied— 

“‘ There is no letter paper here, whatever, Mrs. Clifton.” 

«What are those ?”’ 

“ Only card boards and sketches, madam.” 

«Sketches, That is just like Archer, to keep his sketches 
in his writing desk. His writing material will no doubt be 
found in his portfolio. But let me see those sketches, Cathe- 
rine; I have not seen them yet, and they will he something 
new to me—almost like a recent letter from Archer. TI like 
to look over his drawings; they always mean someting apart 
from ‘her auject, as it secms to me. I often think his 


ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 179 


sketvhes form a running commentary, though an involuntary 
one, on his life and thoughts! Hand them to me, my child.” 

“These are only old historical subjects,” said Kate, with 
visible reluctance to produce them. 

‘¢ Pass them over to me, my dear. If their subjects are aa 
old as the Chinese History of the Creation, they will never- 
theless be eloquent to me of my son’s present mood—of the 
state of his heart, and the progress or the retrogression of his 
wind. You cannot imagine, Catherine, the anxious curiosity 
of a mother to catch furtive glimpses of the interior of that 
heart she cannot always enter, and which is often hidden, 
too, from its possessor! ‘We know not what manner of 
spirit we are of,’ Catherine. For instance, do you know 
your own heart or mind? In all hearts lie depths below 
depths, never known to the owner until some earthquake of 
sorrow, or of passion, throw them open to view! ‘There are 
jn all minds powers beyond powers of achievement or of en- 
durance, unsuspected by their possessor until some emergency 
ealls them into action! But give me the drawings, Kate, 
they will refresh me like a talk with Archer.” 

Catherine lifted them, en masse, and handed them to 
Mrs. Clifton, who took and examined each separately and 
leisurely. 

‘¢Um-m-me,” she said, smiling gently, as she recognized 
their subjects :—‘ Marguerite of France, at the Siege of 
Damietta,’ ‘Joan of Arc, at Rhiems,’ ‘Margaret of Anjou, 
at St. Albans,’ ‘ Last interview of Lord and Lady Russel,’ 
and all these battle-axe heroines, wearing the likeness of my 
serious, domestic Catherine! In truth, Archer has put you 
through as many characters and costumes as though he de- 
signed you for a tragic actress, in the heaviest line.” 

Kate Kavanagh did not like that. 

«¢ But two of these characters bear any affinity to you, my 
dear. I cannot fancy any similitude between the tender and 
fiery Marguerite —that ‘ faleon-hearted dove,’ or her haughty 
und remorseless namesake of Anjou, and my grave, gentle 
Catherine. But the high and holy enthusiasm irradiating 
Joan’s face, and the noble resignation of Lady Russel’ 
evuntenance, suit your striking features very well. But 
ain talking like a mediocre stage critic. Captain Clifton has 
a very high opiuion, of you, my Catherine. Pray try to 


180 ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 


merit ii, my dear girl!” concluded the lady, with a little 
pardonable motherly pride. 

Kate Kavanagh looked down, and fingered the pens and 
wafers, fer she felt the lady’s eyes gazing through and through 
her—reading her very soul. 

‘¢ By-the-way, Catherine, have you seen Captain Clifton’s 
last work of art ?”’ 

‘¢ No, madam.” (I wonder why she calls him “ Captain 
Clifton” to me—she never did so before, thought Kate.) 

“It is a highly finished miniature of Miss Clifton, painted 
on ivory. He had it set in a plain gold locket, and has 
taken it away with him. I saw him hang it around his neck, 
and lay it near his heart.” 

Jatherine honestly believed that she was glad to hear this, 
fur it seemed one more stay to keep her thoughts right. 

«¢ And that, Catherine, is one reason among many others 
I have, for knowing his indestructible love for Carolyn. And 
that is why I feel no hesitation in having this letter written, 
to end this foolish quarrel, and to restore peace to these two 
unhappy young people,” said Mrs. Clifton, looking, Catherine 
thought, very strangely at her—so strangely, that the 
maiden felt her cheeks burn with a vague sense of humiliation. 

She asked herself-—Could Mrs. Clifton have read what had 
heen passing in her mind? Well! if so—that was another 
band to bind her thoughts to the right. 

‘¢ Now, then, to your task, my child. You will find paper 
in Captain Clifton’s portfolio.” She spoke gently as ever to 
Kate, but still called her son “Captain Clifton,” as if to 
widen the distance between them. 

Kate felt troubled at this, and then took herself to task for 
a state of mind so morbidly acute to impressions, that she_ 
noticed everything, even that trifle. She searched and found 
the writing materials in the portfolio, and went to work and 
wrote, from Mrs Clifton’s dictation, a letter, full of gentle 
rebuke, and kind, motherly counsel, to Archer Clifton. And 
all to the end that he should write immediately, and recon- 
cile himself to Carolyn, who was extremely ill, and whom his 
mother felt assured, she said, that he must be most anxious 
to propitiate. The letter was sealed and dispatched, and 
the lady, thoroughly worn out, and Jeaning upon the arm of 
Catherine, sought her own bed-chamber. 


ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 181 


The next morning, Mrs. Clifton was so weary that she 
could only leave her bed-chamber to lie upon the sofa in the 
shady parlor, where she could be at hand to direct the opera- 
tions of her house servants—now engaged in cutting out and 
making up the Fall clothing for the negroes. Catherine 
came early to assist in this onerous task. It was in the 
afternoon while the lady was still reclinmg on the sofa, and 
Catherine standing at a work-table basting a linsey-woolsey 
frock-body—when a horse was heard to gallop up into the 
yard, a man to jump off and hasten up the steps of the piazza, 
and the instant after, old Mr. Clifton entered the parlor, 
looking very much flurried and alarmed. 

‘What is the matter? I hope Carolyn is no worse?’ 
asked the lady, anxious, yet calm. 

“No! Yes! A great deal better of course since the turn 
last night! Most malignant form of the disease, and grow- 
ing rapidly worse every hour. J tell you it is! The doctor 
affirms it !” 

Mrs. Clifton gazed at him in a sort of self-possessed per- 
flexity. 

‘She has got the small-pox, madam.” 

“¢ The small-pox !” 

- & Yes, madam, the confluent smail-pox, in its worst form.’ 

‘‘You astonish me! I trust—I believe you are mis- 
taken!” . 

_ & No—TI wish to Heaven I was! No, madam! Doctor’s 
pinion !” 

“¢ Why, how on earth. Sit down, Mr. Clifton! Kate, my 
dear, wheel that arm-chair around.” 

Catherine obeyed, and the old gentleman sank among its 
soft cushions, and took out his pocket-handkerchief and wiped 
his face. 

«¢ How on earth could she have got it ?”’ asked Mrs. Clifton. 

‘ «Ah! Lord Almighty knows! Came spontaneously, I do 
suppose! You noticed those two pimples that appeared 
upon her forehead after the crisis of her fever passed ?”? - 

«Yes; but I thought nothing of them.” 

“¢ Nor did we at the time. But at any rate, that was the 
first appearance of the eruption—little as we guessed it at tha 
time. You see, she naturally began to grow better when 
this oth2r disease began to break out, [ suppose. Indeed. J 


182 ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES 


have no doubt it was the coming of the small-pox, that ar- 
rested the fatal termination of the brain fever. Well, you 
see, last night after you had left her so much better, we en- 
trusted her to the care of Zuleime, who did not seem to be 
so much worn out with watching as the rest of us. So Zn- 
‘eime sat up with her; and she tells me that before midnight 
her face was sprinkled all over with those pimples. And 
this morning, when I first saw her—” The old man’s voice 
broke down for a moment. ‘Oh! st was dreadful! Her 
beautiful, fair face, neck, bosom, arms, all covered over with 
that horrible eruption! It had all run together in one mass. 
We sent off to hasten the arrival of the doctor, who, when 
he came, pronounced the disease to be confluent small-pox. 
Oh, it is horrible! horrible, even if her life be spared! Dis- 
figured for life! What afate fora woman! I drove Zuleime 
out of the room against her will—for she, dear, generous 
girl, wished to stay and tend her sister. Georgia told me at 
breakfast, that she had just got a letter from her father, who 
was ill—and that she must have the carriage to go to Rich- 
mond. She did not show me the letter, for she made haste 
and started almost immediately. Everything falls out disas- 
trously at once. Now, what am I to do? I cannot procure 
a nurse to that disease, for love or money, in this neighbor- 
hood. Advise me what to do. The necessity is so urgent!” 

Mrs. Clifton was now sitting up, supporting her head upon 
her hand, and essaying her strength. 

‘¢T must go back, and nurse Carolyn myself.” 

“ You! Now, never suppose, my dear sister, that I have 
been Linting for you to return and finish killing yourself for 
us! J] would not permit it, if you wished it ever so much! 
T'll lock and bar the dvors and windows, to keep you out, 
first. But think and counsel me as to the best thing to be 
done, There is no one at home but Zuleime—and even if I 
were willing she should risk taking the dreadful disease, she 
is so very young and irfexperienced that I should be afraid to 
trust her sister’s safety in her hands. But I am not willing 
that she should run any risk to herself—that’s flat. But 
wi at’s to be done 2?” 

«There is not a servant on your plantation, or on this 
farm, fit to be trusted in such a case. I must go and take 
taro of my daughter myself!” 


ARCHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 183 


«¢ D—d if you shall, ma’am!  T’ll bar my doors and win- 
dows against you, first, 1 tell you! Why, in your weak state, 
it would be suicide !” 

The lady maintained her purpose against Mr. Clifton’s ve- 
khement opposition, and her calm persistence must have con» 
quered, but Kate Kavanagh mildly interposed, by saying— 

« Let me go.” 

‘© You! exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, in a breath. 

“Yes; Iam nota bad nurse. I have had considerable 
experience with sick people.” 

«“ But—you’ve never had the 3mall-pox—you’re not the 
least marked!” said Mr. Clifton. 

«¢ No, str, I have never had that disease !” 

*¢ And you are willing to risk taking it?” - 

“¢ Yes, sir!” 

«“ What! and youayoung girl! Ain’t you afraid of catch- 
ing it, and having your face spoiled ?”” 

“¢ Yes, sir, I am afraid of contracting it.” 

«Why that is a plain contradiction of yourself, you say 
you are wiiling to risk it, and afraid of catching it. I donot 
understand you at all.”’ 

‘¢ Catherine is so simply truthful and straightforward !”* 
said the lady, smiling; “ she means that she is perfectly con- 
scious of the extent of the danger of contagion, but that she 
thinks it her duty to brave it, nevertheless! Is not that it, 
my dear? But, Catherine, much as we thank you for your 
generous self-devotion, we must not permit you to think of 
going. I must do that, for I have had the disease. If you 
were to persist in your purpose, my dear girl, you would 
almost certainly get the small-pox, and then your life, or at 
the very least, your beauty, would be sacrificed.” 

«¢ Beauty !”—If I had it and were to lose it, dear lady, 
there is no one to care for it !” 

s¢ Yes, I should care for it, my Kate,” said the lady, putting 
her arm around the girl’s waist, and drawing her closer. 

«Jn fine, my good girl, you shall not go if youare afraid! 
That’s certain!” said Mr. Clifton. 

Oh, sir, that would not interfere with the faithful dis- 
charge of my duties as nurse. You had best let me go, and 
go at once, sir! There isno time tobe lost, surely. Is any 
tompctent person with Miss Clifton now, sir ?” 


184 ARUHER CLIFTON’S SKETCHES. 


«No one but a colored woman, and I really must hurry 
back. And, so if you really do fee] disposed to go, my dear 
girl,—is she a good nurse, Mrs. Clifton 

“ Hxcellent, sir! But indeed I do not like her exposing 
herself in my stead.” [should not permit her to do it, indeed, 
if my power seconded my will,” added the lady, sinking 
back fatigued upon her sofa cushions. 

Old Mr. Clifton was evidently inclined to accept Kate’s 
services. Mrs. Clifton was obliged to yield,—more to the 
weakness that overpowered her frame than to the arguments 
set forth by Catherine. It was settled, then, that Kate 
should go. And she quickly put on her little straw bonnet 
and black silk scarf, and entered the gig that the old gentle 
mau borrowed from the lady to convey the gir] to Clifton. 


THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 184 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 


When through the deep waters I call thee tc go 
The rivers of wo shall not thee overflow, 

For I will be with thee thy troubles to bless, 
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress. 


W hen through fierv trials thy pathway shall he, 

My grace all-sufficient shall be thy supply; 

The flame shall not hurt thee, 1 only design, 

Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine. 
PARAPHRASE FROM Scp et Ke. 


'lHE mansion-house at White Cliffs was all but deserted 
The very house-servants, pretty mulatto girls, more afraid 
of destroying their good looks than losing their lives, had 
retreated to their own dens, feigning illness as an excuse to 
keep wut of the reach of contagion. Catherine was intro- 
duced at once into the sick room. That sick room! What 
mind van conceive, or what pen should describe it. Only 
those who have nursed a patient through that worst form 
of the most loathsome pestilence, can realize its revolting 
horrors. To see any human being looking as the once beau- 
tiful Carelyn now looked. Her very features almost oblite- 
rated, while fill up the pause, you who have seen the 
horrors of that pest. It was worse-than any form of illness 
—it was worse than death and decay. Disgust almost over- 
mastered pity, and Catherine turned away, shuddering with 
sickness of body and soul. Old Mr. Clifton cast one ago- 
nized look upon the ruin, and unable to bear the sight, 
rushed from the room. Catherine turned to her duty. The 
wretched patient was tossing about in high fever, and tearing 
her arms and bosom under the intolerable irritation. That 
work of destruction must be stopped first Catherine knew. 
Catherine caught her right hand, and it took all her strength 
tc hold that hand, whose flesh seemed as if it would drop off, 





IS6 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION 


woder the pressure, while she secured it to the bedstead 
Then she captured the other dashing, tossing hand, and con- 
fined it in the same manner. And then she looked at the 
state of her own palms. Oh, offensive duty! No wonder, 
she thought, that the beautiful Georgia had fled to Richmond, 
and the two pretty house-maids were extremely ill in their 
attic! Had she a wish to follow their example? No—for 
now all selfish fears were lost in deep compassion for the 
poor, forsaken wreck of beauty, that lay there at her mercy. 
She returned to her duty. She administered to her patient 
an opiate, to soothe her restlessness. Took a sponge and 
tepid water, and thoroughly cleansed the surface of the skin, 
and anointed face, bosom and arms with a fragrant emol- 
lient, to allay the intolerable itching. She then released her 
hands, and laid them easily upon the counterpane. Lastly, 
she ventilated and darkened the chamber, and took her seat 
by the bedside, to fan her patient while she slept. And deep 
was her satisfaction in watching that quiet, refreshing sleep. 
It is not my intention to lead my reader through the dismal 
days that followed in that sick room, until the secondary 
fever,” the crisis of the disease, came and passed. Catherine 
nursed her patient tenderly, faithfully, night and day. Ca- 
rolyn’s life was spared, but her peerless beauty was gone 
forever. Her luxuriant, fair hair was all lost, and her head 
was as bald and discolored as her face—and that! 

In that darkened chamber, and in the midst of physical 
suffering and weakness, Carolyn had had no opportunity of 
ascertaining the extent of the ravages the disease had made 
in her beauty—if indeed she knew the nature of the former, 
or thought about the latter. But as she convalesced, and 
became able to sit up in bed and converse, she felt an in- 
valid’s childish curiosity to look in the glass, and frequently 
requested her gentle nurse to hand her one. But Catherine, 
dreading the effect of the shock, steadily refused to comply 
with her wishes in that respect, and perseveringly kept the 
room darkened. And the sick girl, too weak to persist long 
in any controversy, yielded the point. 

But one day, while Catherine was at her breakfast, and 
old Darkey supplying her place by the bedside of the patient, 
Carolyn said in a tone that admitted of no denial, or even 
uclay— 


THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. IE€7? 


« Darkey, hand me that hand-glass from my dressing- 
table.” 

And the old woman impulsively, thoughtlessly obeyed 
her, and brought it. Carolyn was propped up in bed. She 
took the mirror, gave one interested look into 1i—plucked 
off her little cap—gave another hurried glance—and utter- 
ing a long, low cry of despair, sunk back insensible upon 
her pillow. 

Old Darkey flew from the chair to the patient, and from 
the patient to the bell, in great trepidation—ringing peals 
that brought all the household hurrying in alarm to the room. 
Old Mr. Clifton, being nearest at hand, arrived first. And 
when he saw and understood what had happened, he seized 
the hand-glass, and threw it out of the window, and laid hold 
of the heavy toilet mirror, and sent it flying after. Then he 
drove old Darkey from the room, forbidding her, for a stupid 
and dangerous maniac, ever to show her face there again. 
And all this time, Catherine, who had entered so quietly that 
no one saw or heard her, was silently trying to restore the 
swooning girl. As Carolyn, with a deep sigh, opened her 
eyes, Kate motioned for every one to leave the chamber. 
And all noiselessly withdrew. Carolyn shivered and shud- 
dered several times, as she raised her eyes appealingly, des- 
pairingly to Catherine, who was bending tenderly over her. 
Catherine thought it best to answer that silent appeal by 
speaking at once to the point. 

‘‘ My dear Miss Clifton, you must not think that your face 
will continue to look anything like it does now, for it will 
not, indeed. [or though it is very much discolored, it is not 
much pitted, and the discoloration will wear off in a few 
days. And as for your hair, Miss Clifton, that will grew out 
very soon, and be even more beautiful and luxuriant than be« 
fore, on account of the renewal of the skin—so, dear lady, 
take comfort and do not look in the glass again until you are 
better.” And all this me that Catherine spoke in this 
gentle manner, she was bathing the girl’s face and hands 
with bay water, and her tender touch was even more soothing 
than the sedative liquid. Catherine was almost impelled to 
say—*‘ Have patience—bow to the will of God, and try to 
learn the lesson He intends to teach in this.” But she felt 
the hour had not come for speaking such words. [hat she 


1s8 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION, 


herself must have patience and wait for the time when she 
might minister to her spiritual need. ; 

Up to this period, Miss Clifton did not know who hernurse 
was. She had heard her called “ My dear child,” or “ My 
good girl,” by the physician and by her father, and they were 
the only visitors to the room, except old Darkey, who came to 
relieve the nurse at meal times, and who simply called her 
“6 Miss.” And if once or twice she had heard her called 
Catherine—still she never imagined her to be Kate Kava- | 
nagh, but some hired attendant. And, indeed, in tke lan- 
guor of illness she thought nothing about it. A few days 
afier this, however, when she had grown more composed and 
resigned, and while she lay watching Catherine’s quiet move- 
ments through the room, she said— 

“My dear, good girl—my gentle nurse—tell me your 
vame? I do pray sometimes, and I wish to know your uame 
that I may ask God to bless you for exposing life and health 
end beauty for one whom mother, and sister, and servants 
n'] deserted.” Just now, fur the first time, it flashed like 
liohtning through Kate’s mind that all the danger of infec- 
tion was over, and that she might now thank God for presery- 
mz her from contagion. Yes! she had forgotten herself for 
rome time past, but now her heart leaped for joy and grati- 
tude, and she thanked God before she ‘replied to Miss Clif- 
ton’s question, and said— 

“My name is Catherine Kavanagh.” 

«¢So!—you are Kate Kavanagh! Hoist up the blind. 
Come to me. Let me look at you,” said Miss Clifton, rais- 
ing on her elbow. Smiling, because unconscious of xhe 
hidden meaning in her words, Catherine approached ané sat 
down by her bed. And Carolyn took both her hands, and 


“ Fell tothe perusing of her face, 
As though she’d learn it off by heart.” 


She pored over the broad, square forehead, lcoking strong, 
but not beautiful, for all the bright chestnut hair was pushed 
carelessly aside—she gazed upon those dark gray eyes under 
their long black fringes—such deep, transparent wel of 
darkness and light they were—she dwelt upon the beautiful 
lips, and then her glance roved over the symmetrical form. 


And she thougli she had never seen so perfect a figure. And 


THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 189 


she sighed and raised her eyes again to the remarkable coun- 
tenance, with its large features, pale and cadaverous now with 
a long season of confinement, fatigue and loss of sleep, and 
grave with thought, and earnest with deep feeling. And she 
could not settle it to her satisfaction whether Kate Kavanagh 
was a sublime beauty or a fright. Upon the whole, the girl 
interested and pained her. And she continued to hold her 
hands with a nervous grasp, and pore over her face and form 
as freely as though she had been only a dreadfully fascinating 
statue—while Kate blushed under the infliction, and finally 
drew her hands away and sat down. 

But every day Miss Clifton’s confidence in, and esteem for 
Kate Kavanagh, increased. And every day Catherine sought 
to draw her patient’s soul to the only true source of light, 
strength and consolation; and to sanctify this terrible afflic- 
tion to her spirit’s good. The obligation to do this pressed 
upon the girl’s conscience heavily, as if it were the hand of 
God. It was in vain that she said to herself, “¢ Tam nothing 
but a weak, errivg girl. It would be presumption in me to 
speak. It might be received as impertinence, and do more 
harm than good.” Still the answer arose from the depths of 
her heart, saying—“ Speak the fitting words at the fitting 
time, as they arise within your mind, for they are the inspira- 
tion of God’s spirit.”” And wisely, lovingly, reverently she 
spoke them as occasion called them forth. The right thing 
was always said at the moment it was needed. ‘* Words 
spoken in season are like apples of gold on plates of silver.” 
Many a willing but bungling Christian would have failed to do 
Carolyn any good, for Miss Clifton was a very difficult subject. 
There is nothing so hard of impression as pride and scorn and 
jealousy. It was the dominion of that infernal triumvirate 
that made Lucifer an impracticable subject among the angels. 
But Catherine was movedand guided bya higher power than 
herself. Of herself she dared say nothing on Divine sub- 
jects. She only spoke when strongly, irresistibly impelled 
to do so. And her words were blessed to her patient and 
sanctified to her own spirit. 

Catherine had a powerful coadjutor in her good work, It 
was the sorrow in Carolyn’s heart. And ah. who could sound 
the depth of that sorrow? Loving as passionately as she 
had loved! Sinning against that love as cruelly as she had 

12 


190 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 


sinned! Punished for her sin as terribly as she was pun 
ished! And now ruined and hideous in person, and wrecked 
and despairing in mind, to whom could she ery in her sharp 
agony but to God ?—her Creator and Father '—Whose arm 
was strong enough to lift her from that horrible pit but God’s 
—but God’s? And the All-Powerful, the All-Merciful, was 
helping her every day. 

The great strength, the great vitality of her sorrow, was 
the thought of Archer Clifton. Could she have hoped for a 
reconciliation with him, however distant, all else might have 
been borne. But with that death’s head of hers, such joy 
might never be hoped—ought never to be wished. No, she 
was as the leper, set apart from human love—at least from 
conjugal and maternal love—forever and forever! This was 
hard—this was well nigh intolerable ! 

She would no more grace the saloon with her surpassing 
loveliness—the pride of her family—the ornament of their, 
house. Her heart would no more swell with exultation, when, 
on entering the drawing-room, in the full glory of her peerless 
beauty, she would hear a murmur of admiration pass through 
the company. No. If she should ever enter a saloon again, 
she would make a tremendous sensation, truly—but it would 
be one of astonishment, pity, and perhaps disgust. And that 
thought was dreadful, dreadful to the proud young belle! But 
oh! it was as nothing to the feeling that her household gods 
were broken and ruined forever—that her hopes of domestiv 
happiness were gone forever! Jor underneath all the pride 
and vanity and scorn of the young belle had been the woman’s 
thought, the woman’s hope of the coming long, calm days ct 
wife and mother joy. Yea, as surely as under the burnished 
satin boddice had beat the heart of flesh! But all these were 
over now; the proud, vain aspirations of the belle, and the 
woman’s deeper, purer hopes! Both crushed by one fell blow 
All was lost in the world! Nothing was left but Heaven! | 


‘““Tf God would take 
A heart that earth had crushed.”’ 


Many are driven by the storms of life to the Heavenly Va 
ther’s bosom. It is for this that the tempests of sorrow are 
sent, and the sooner that Divine sanctuary is sought, the bet- 
rer, for hard and harder will beat the storm until its end is 


THE DISCIPLINE CF AFFLICTION. 191 


answered. And too often all is lost, or seems lost, before 
we consent to save ourselves. With Carolyn, all the trea- 
sures of her youth were gone,—health and beauty, love and 
hope. Something like this she breathed to Catherine, in a 
weak, despairing mood,—for only in a miserably depressed 
state of mind and body would the proud girl deign to com- 
plain. 

*‘ Dear lady, do not say so sadly that ‘all is lost—forever 
lost.’ Dear lady, nothing is ever lost. It is impossible. 
The Lord, in His Divine Wisdom, may withdraw His gifts, 
but they are not lost—they have gone into His keeping.” 

1] do not comprehend you! My poor good looks, such 
as they were, are surely gone forever. Nothing can restore 
them! And oh, Catherine! you do not know—you cannot 
understand all the blessings, the hope, and the joy of my life 
fled forever! You are a child—you do not understand it!” 

“Perhaps I do, not, lady, and perhaps I do! Seek all 
that you have lost in God! He has withdrawn His gifts, 
your treasures, that He may draw you to Himself! They 
are safe in His treasure house. If you have lost the beauty 
of the fair roseate complexion, He can endow you witha 
higher beauty, emanating from the soul. If you have lost 
human love, He can satisfy your soul with the richness and 
fullness of Divine love that never faileth! And for your 
broken earthly hopes, He can give you the Heavenly hope 
that never dicth.” 

“Oh! but it is the lost earthly hope, personal beauty and 
human love, that were so dear to me! So dear to me!” ex 
claimed the poor girl, bursting into a passion of tears. 

«« And He can restore even those! ‘ But seek ye first the 
Kingdom of Heaven, and all these things shall be added to 

1 Pits 

“ Ah, child! Nothing but a miracle could give me back 
dead happiness. And the days of miracles are over !” 

‘No! no! There is nothing in the Scripture to warant 
that saying. The days of miracles are not passed. Until 
the days of human faith and Divine Omnipotence are past—- 
the days of miracles are not passed. Anything that seeme 
to me right that I should have, I will pray God—that if it 
be right, He will give it me—thaugh it should appear to my 
ignorance utterly impossible!” Then Catherine abruptly 


199, THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 


stopred, fearing that she had said too much. And she 
silently prayed fora faith that should be as far removed from 
presumption, as from despair. 

Carolyn conyalesced very slowly. It was weeks befora 
she left her bed. And then many more weeks before she left 
her room 

It was a glorious day in Autumn, when ‘she first walked 
out upon the lawn, supported between Catherine and her 
father. And as soon as she set foot upon the green sward, 
‘some cattle that were browsing there—by some caprice to 
which cattle are subject—started off as if seized by sudden 
panic, and ran huddling together confusedly, and precipi- 
tating themselves towards the outer gate. And so weak were 
the poor invalid’s nerves, and so morbid her mind, that she 
burst into tears, and declared that the very brutes fled from 
before her face, as from one less human than themselves! 
Nor could any argument of Mr. Clifton’s or of Catherine’s, 
disabuse her mind of this absurd idea. She begged Cathe- 
rine to take her back to her chamber. And for many weeks 
no entreaties could induce her to leave it. 

Zuleime came freely to her sister now. She had her harp 
brought into her room. And she soothed the recluse with 
music every day. And at last Kate Kavanagh, who had 
gradually merged from nurse into companion, added her own - 
rich, full-toned voice in accompaniment. The Misses Clifton 
were both very much surprised to see this “ gift of gracious 
nature’ thrown away upon a poor girl, with no hopes or 
prospects but manual labor for her living. And Zuleime, 
who could be thoughtful and benevolent in the midst of 
anxiety and sorrow, proposed to give Catherine lessons on the 
harp. But this was soon stopped. Both Zuleime and Cathe- 
rine perceived that the music, far from soothing, seemed to 
irritate the invalid. And for this reason, Carolyn had lost 
her voice. She could never sing again. And even in speak~ 
ing, her tones were harsh and rough. The harp was bat 
ished, and books were brought. And while Zuleime worked, 
and Carolyn fondled a little King Charles, that had been 
bought for the childish invalid, Kate read aloud to the sis- 
ters. And now it was that the world of written poetry 
broke upon the maiden’s delighted view. Before this, she 
had never read a line of poetry in her life, except hymns— 


THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 1938 


for Mrs. Clifton had judiciously suppressed all booxs of that 
nature. But now the treasures of Milton, Goldsmith, and 
Cowper, were opened to her ardent mind! Oh, those days 
that followed the convalescence of Miss Clifton- those even- 
ings after Carolyn had gone to rest, when she and Zuleime 
would go into the summer-saloon and spend the hours in ma 
sic or poetry, or in talk as musical, and as poetic. Those 
evenings, spent with a refined, warm-hearted girl like Zu- 
leime—they were unfitting her for her prospective hard life 
of coarse labor and coarser association. She felt that it was 
so. And she determined to leave. She only waited until 
Mr. Clifton went to Richmond and brought back his wife. 
And then she bade them all good-bye and returned home— 
not to the farm-house of Hardbargain, but to her brother 
Carl’s cabin. 

She needed to commune with herself, and be still. She 
wished to descend into the unsounded abysses of her heart, 
and examine, though with awe, the mystery of iniquity that 
in some unguarded hour had germinated there—this growing 
passion for a man betrothed to another. No matter if the 
marriage was broken off for the present. They loved each 
other. And that was the true betrothal. As for herself, she 
would, with the grace of God, turn out this dangerous bosom 
guest, so divinely fair as to seem like an angel of light rather 
than the tempting demon that it was! And to do this effectu- 
ally, she must break every tie that held her to that fair illu- 
sive life she had lately led. She must forsake every associa- 
tion connected with her sin and folly. She loved Mrs. 
Clifton—loved her first for herself alone, and then as the 
mother of—one whose name she dared not now to breathe 
even to herself. She enjoyed the congenial society and oc- 
cupations at White Cliffs and at Hardbargain. And now she 
was the most welcome visitor on the list of both families. 
But she must forego the privilege this gave her. More than 
all, she had enjoyed her pleasant life at Hardbargain. The 
cheerful housekeeping cares she had shared with its mistress 
—the conversations over the pleasant tea-table or the social 
work-stand—the books, the newspapers, and the evening 
music, and the society of the admirable Mrs. Clifton—these 
formed the externals, the body of her happiness; but the 
mterior, the soul of her joy, was that there was the home of 


194 THE DISCIPLINE OF AFFLICTION. 


Archer Clifton—the place pervaded by his spirit! redolent 
of him! But all these must be abandoned! They might 
have affinity for her nature, but they did not belong to her 
ot in life. And see what they had brought her to! Even 
to an insane passion for her benefactor! And now it: was 
high time she had come to her senses and self-recollection. 
She was a poor girl, of the humblest birth—born in poverty 
and destined to poverty. She must leave off spending vven- 
ings with refined and accomplished young ladies in elegant 
saloons, if she wished to do her duty in that station to which 
fxod had calied her. And she must give up the society of 
Archer Clifton’s mother, if she wished to forget him. And 
she must betake herself to the coarse, hard, but dutiful life 
of her brother’s cabin. 

Catherine went no more to White Cliffs or to Nardbargain. 
And when Mrs. Clifton sent for hur to come anid spend a day, 
she returned a gentle answer that she could not leave her 
grandfather. 


THE BLACK SEAL. eSB 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE BLACK SEAL. 


Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 

Not once had turned to either side— 

Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 

Or shade the glance on which they rose; - 
But round their orbs of darkest hue, 

The circling white dilated grew— 

4iid there with glassy gaze she stood, 

As ice were in her curd.ea blood.—Brron. 


THE evening was chilly—just chilly enough to make tne 
sovelty of the first fire of the season a luxury. And sc Zu- 
feime had ordered a bright little fire kindled in the parlor, 
and the tea-table set out there. And she had changed her 
white muslin dress for a fine crimson poplin one, and began 
to think of the pleasant autumn evenings, when all the family 
would gather around the hearth, with needle-work and books 
and social chat. And, like a child, she was forgetting the 
threatening dangers that lay before her, and those she loved 
—her father’s trouble, Major Cabell’s expected arrival, 
Frank’s peril in distant warfare, the difficulties of her own 
position—all were for awhile forgotten, iu the dream of 
cheerful fireside affection and comfort, as she moved about 
the room, closing blinds, dropping curtains, and wheeling 
easy-chairs up near the fire, and thinking with what a fine 
smile of genial satisfaction her father would come in and look 
around upon the change before he dropped himself into that 
largest easy-chair. Mr. Clifton had ridden to the village, 
but was expected back to tea. And there sat the tea-table, 
a little aside, to be clear of the chair, near the fire-place, and 
radiant with snowy damask and shining silver. 

Carolyn came in, pacing softly, slowly, and turning her 
eyes around the room with a look of languid approval, she 

ank inte an arm-chair. Zuleime went to her immediately, 


196 THE BLACK BE 


and relieved her of the large shawl she had worn through the 
chilly passages, and closed her dressing-gown, and settled 
the lace borderof the delicate little cap, and placed the 
softest cushion under her feet, and then kissed her forehead, 
but did not speak. Cuarolyn repaid her with a silent look of 
affection. Since the departure of Catherine, Carolyn bad 
sunk into a sort of mute despondency, in spite of all the care 
and affection of her sister, for it was ber moral nature that 
needed help, and the young Zuleinie could not 


‘Minister to a mind diseased ”’ 


Mrs. Georgia Clifton entered, and silently glided to her 
seat. Unconsciously, Georgia became a dark and terrible 
picture. She sat upon a low ottoman, at the corner of tha 
fire-place, her head supported by her hand, and all her glit- 
tering ringlets falling like a glory down each side of her 
darkly splendid face. And through that strong light and 
shadow her form palpitated, her bosom heaved and fell, her 
moist lips dropped apart, and her eyes gleamed with a set, 
steady fire, as though some passionate trance wrapt and spell- 
bound her soul. 

Zuleime was moving about the room, and giving directions 
to a servant, who had brought in cakes and preserves. Finalls 
she sat down, and took out her knitting—it was a pair of 
white lamb’s wool socks, for her father—and knitted while 
she waited. She had not long to wait. 

The door swung open silently, and Mr. Clifton entered, 
with a newspaper in his hand, but looking so shocked and 
troubled, that all, with one accord, raised their eyes in silent 
inquiry. 

‘Poor Frank! poor Frank!” exclaimed the old man, as 
if he was ready to burst into a passion of tears. 

“ What!—what of Frank?’ asked a faltering, gasping 
voice, which he could not recognize as belonging to either of 
the three young women present—yet answered, mechani: 
cally— 

«Those bloody Redskins! Those ghastly, horrible Saya- 
ges!” he cried, throwing himself into a chair. 

«© There—there has been some fighting! Js—————_— 
Tell me'—tell me! You know what I want to know / 
Arche, +4?” exclaimed (Carolyn, bending forward. While 


THE BLACK SEAL. 197 


sallow and fierce, the eyes of Georgia gleamed the terra and 
anxiety she dared not express! 

‘s Archer is safe!” said Mr. Clifton. 

And the light of a sudden joy flitted across Georgia’s dar 
face,—and Carolyn sank back, with a look of grateful relief, 
And no one noticed Zuleime. And no one knew that she 
had spoken. ; 

“Yes! Archer is safe! Thank God! And a thousand 
times thank God, that Archer is safe! But Frank !—poor 
Frank! My God what a fate! Who shall tell his mother?” 

“‘ For Heaven’s sake!—what has happened to Mr. Fair- 
fax V’ asked Georgia. 

“There! ‘There! Read for yourself,” replied the old 
man, getting up, and handing her the paper. He did not 
mean that she should read aloud, perhaps—but he forgot— 
he was confused with trouble. 

And she took the paper, and read :—“ From THE INDIAN 
Frontier; HORRIBLE MASSACRE NEAR FORT 
PROTECTION.—Dispatches from our Western frontier 
bring the most painful account of a horrible massacre of a 
part of oar troops by the Indians, in the vicinity of Fort 
Protection. On Monday, the 15th ultimo, a small recon- 
noitering party left the Fort, under the command of Lieu- 
tenant Fairfax. They had proceeded about a mile on their 
way, when they fell into an ambuscade of Indians, and were 
cut to pieces in the most shocking manner. The body of 
Lieutenant Fairfax, in particular, was so horribly mutilated 
as to be scarcely recognizable. The full particulars of the 
massacre, given below, are copied from the ‘ National Sen- 
tinel.’ ” | 

Then followed a long account of the catastrophe, with 
every revolting circumstance detailed with horrid distinctness. 
The old man heard and groaned at intervals. Carolyn 
shuddered and wept by turns. And even Georgia’s voice 
broke down for pity and horror. But she—the wife—the 
widow—she—the fearfully bereaved—she sat and listened to 
all the murderous story. She heard all—all. How he had 
been set upon by six or seven—how he had singly battled 
with them, when all his party were lying dead around him— 
how then he tried to escape such fearful odds—how he was 
felled, and dragged down frow his horse—the young, 





198 TWEE “BLUE Ms Belts 


warm beating heart was cloven through—the fair hair tora 
from the bleeding skuli—the fingers chopped off for the sake 
of the ring—Frank wore but one—a simple gold ring, with 
a coral set, that she had taken from her slender fore finger, 
and contrived to squeeze past.the joint, and get it comfortably 
upon his little finger. And they had cut it off in their haste 
to get it. How real that trifle made the whole horror, that 
might else have seemed like a nightmare! She sat and 
heard it all—all. And no motion, no tear, no cry escaped 
her. 

At last, when the reading was over, and they were re- 
leased from the spell of horror, old Mr. Clifton thought of 
Zulcime, and feared its effect on her. He turned to look at 
her. At first he saw nothing amiss. 

She sat so naturally, though still, with her knitting in her 
hands, as though only stopped for an instant, and her face 
turned in a listening attitude toward Georgia, who had ceased 
to read. 

‘It is all over—there is no more to hear, Zuleime, my 
darling,” said the old man. 

But she did not move or speak. She seemed to look and 
sisten intently. 

“‘Zuleime,” said her father gently. 

She remained perfectly still. 

“ Zuleime!”’ he exclaimed, in a louder tone. She did not 
hear. 

“‘ ZULEIME!!” he cried, a third time, going towards her, 
\o seize her shoulder. 

But he started back in offright. They were all gazing at 
her now. 

‘© My God! she is Dray!” ejaculated the father. 

«She is MAD!”’ exeloimed Georgia. 

They gathered aronnd her. She knew it not. She sat 
there as if frozen into that attitude—her face white and 
hard—her lips bloodless and stiff, and her eyes still fixed 
towards the spot from which Georgia had been reading, but 
beyond it—beyond it—into the far distance, as if fascinated 
by some spectacle there of unutterable horror! 

* Zuleime! what are your looking at? Speak to me, my 
sthild !”” cried her father, in great distress. 

“Ye might a¥ well have expected a statue to speak. 


THE BLACK SEAL. 199 


Carolyn took the knitting away, which, through all this, 
had dangled between her stiff, unconscious fingers. Georgia 
rubbed her hands. Carolyn bathed her face. The old man 
cried to her—all in vain! They might as well have performed 
these offices for the dead. 

They lifted her up, and laid her on a sofa—her limhs 
hanging helplessly, like those of a dead or swooning girl, 
But she was neither dead nor swooning. Wherever they 
moved her, her eyes were still fixed, in that bright, burning, 
horrible stare, upon the distance, as though the vision of the 
ghastly spectacle that had been conjured up before her 
imagination, followed her wherever she was turned. 

They took her up stairs, undressed and put her to bed. 
All night long she lay in the same state. 

In the morning there was no change, except that the 
muscles of the face had fallen, the cheeks sunken, the chin 
dropped, and that concentrated, intense gaze into vacancy, 
was more burning bright than ever. It was as though a 
burning soul was consuming the unconscious flesh to death. 
Or as if a body were turning to dust and ashes with the spirit 
stil] imprisoned in it. 

“‘ She is sinking, and must die, unless she can be moved 
to tears,” said the doctor. 

But what should move her to tears? Was there anything 
on earth that she could weep for now? Her old gray father 
had knelt, weeping, by her bedside, and torn his silver hair 
in anguish, without causing a single eyelash to quiver over 
that fixed, burning eye! What should make her weep * 
Plaintive music? She could not be made to hear it! The 
very songs that she and Frank had sung together? The 
sound was drowned in the groans from that scene of 
blood! 

Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, had come over, but though 
she was a woman of great skill and experience, all her efforts 
failed to rouse the girl from that fearful trance, which seemed 
likely to end in death. 

“Send for Catherine! If any one in the world can do 
her good now, it will be Catherine. There is, besides, a 
Free-Masonry between girls of the same age, that makes 
them instinctively understand each other. If a child were 
wp a stupor, I should ce-tainly send its favorite playmate— 


200 THE BLACK SEAL. 


another child—as the most likely being to rouse it,” said 
Mrs. Clifton. 

“Ah! My Lord!—this is worse than any stupor! I 
wish to Heaven she would fall into a stupor,” replied the — 
father. . 

“71 know it! For her mind is not dulled, but seems 
wrought up to the highest pitch, and intent upon some im- 
aginary vision of horror. She must be brought out of it. 
She must be subdued. Send for Catherine.” 

Mr. Clifton went himself in the gig, to bring the kind 
girl. 

When Catherine arrived, and while she stood by the 
side of the stricken, insensible girl, Mr. Clifton said to 
her— 

«‘ You see, my dear child Zuleime seems to have been very 
much attached to this poor young man. And the news of 
his horrid death was broken to her suddenly, and it has just 
thrown her into this state! Look at her eyes! What do 
you think they see—in imagination, I mean?” 

“< They see that scene of massacre—they see the death of 
her lover,” said Kate, looking piteously at her friend—(for 
Zuleime was her friend)—and brooding deeply over some 
idea. 

‘“‘The doctor says she must die if she cannot be made to 
weep! Ob, Katey, my dear, dear girl! If you can only 
make her weep! I will give you—I was going to say—I 
would give you half of all I have in the world! Come, try’ 
That’s a good girl! You girls all know each other’s little 
fool-secrets and love nonsenses. Come, try. Do you want 
to be left alone with her ?” 

Kate shook her head in that quick way usual to her when 
strong feeling kept her silent—but she added— 

“‘ Give me her keys.” 

The old man seemed surprised, but looked about and dis- 
covered the required articles in her little work-basket, and 
handed them to Kate. 

“I only want to search and see if I cannot find some- 
thing that was his—some little token or keepsake, you 
know.” 

The old man took his station at the foot of the bed, while 
Kate pursued her search. She knew what she was looking 


THE BLACK SEAL. 21 


‘or, it was a curl of fair hair. She had caugh* a ziimpse of 
it once—when Zuleime had opened a box in her drawer, and 
had immediately shut it again with a deep blush. And now 
she knew whose hair it was; and that the sight of it would 
bring tears to those burning eye-balls, and consciousness to 
that frenzied brain. She found it. She could have wept 
herself as she raised it from its little hiding place. She took 
it to the bedside—put her hand gently over those glaring 
eyes to darken them, and break the spell if possible, and 
then lifting her hand off again, she held up the lock of hair 
by the end, letting it drop into a fair shining ringlet before 
the eyes of the girl, as she said— 

«« Zuleime, do you know whose hair this is ?” 

The poor scathed eye-balls fixed upon it—softened— 
melted from their searching glare—a change came over her 
face—she extended her hand, and caught the tress as if fear- 
ing to lose it, and pressed it with both hands to her heart. 
Then her bosom began to heave convulsively, as with a great 
coming agony. Catherine caught her up, for she seemed 
about to suffocate. It was only the coming of the flood of 
tears—yes, the flood, for she fell upon Catherine’s sustaining 
bosom, and sobbed and wept—such a deluge of tears, that 
the girl’s dress was dripping wet, and it grew a wonder where 
so much came from. And Catherine’s heart was smitten, 
and she wept, too—wept till she grew so weak she could 
scarcely sustain lier burthen. And then old Mr. Clifton 
came around and relieved her, taking Zuleime into his arms 
and laying her head against his shoulder, saying- 

“There, ery! Cry on its father’s neck, as much as it 
wants to! It shall ery its fill, poor thing! poor little heart- 
broken thing!” 

And she did, abundantly !—-but pressed and kissed her 
father’s neck the while for his tender words. This melted 
down the old man’s heart so that he said— 

“¢ They shan’t plague you! None of them shall! Charley 
Cabell shan’t come here to trouble you! That he shan’t. 
Come what will, you shan’t be forced to marry him! No, 
no, my darling—my poor little heart-broken darling, you 
shan’t! Ul! see him in perdition first! And myself, too! 
There, don’t stop! Cry it all out on father’s neck! Don’t 
scp Catch your breath and begin again! That’s right! 


202 THE BLACK SEAL. 


That’s a good girl! Oh, she’ll cry a plenty this bout. Once 
I couldn’t bear to hear women ery! It was because I did 
not know that if the grief was not cried out, it would stay in 
the heart and burst it! I will never try to stop a woman 
from crying again. Cry on, my poor little thing!” And so 
most tenderly, but half-childishly, the old man talked, and 
petted, and cooed over her. 

Catherine slipped down stairs to prepare tea and toast. 

When she came back, she found Zuleime lying back upon 
the pillow exhausted, but composed, and still pressing the 
little lock of hair. Catherine set down the little waiter, and 
took a bowl and napkin and washed her face with cologne 
and water, and then brought the cup of tea. 

Zuleime shook her head mournfully. 

Catherine stooped and whispered. 

“For your father’s sake, dear. J.ook at him.” 

Zuleime raised her eyes to the old man’s grief-worn, anxious 
face, and then extended her hand for the cup, and drank the 
tea. 

While Zuleime was resting in Catborine’s arms and drink- 
ing the tea, a knock was heard at the door, and when Mr. 
Clifton opened it, a servant appeared api told him that Major 
Cabell had arrived, and wished to speak with him. 

Aad the old gentleman set his teeth, and vinual ‘ely went 
Bo We 


Mh. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 22 


CHAPTER XVI. 


MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 


Full many a storm on this gray head has beat 

And now on my high station do I stand, 

Like the tired watchman in rocked tower, 

W ho looketh for the honr of his release. 

I’m sick of worldly broil, aud fain would be 

With those who strive no more.—Joanna Batucie. 


“ WELL, old two pence ha’penny, how d’ y’ do? Family 
all well at last, eh?’ said Major Cabell, advancing to meet 
Mr. Clifton, as he entered the parlor. 

The old gentleman extended his hand gravely, and wel 
comed his visitor to White Cliffs. Then he rung the bell anc 
ordered refreshments, but Major Cabell declined the latter 
and inquired after the ladies. 

«6 My family are all in affliction! D—n it, Charley, you 
know it! Curse that Indian war! My dear Carolyn scarcely 
recovered from the effects of that loathsome pestilence, be- 
fore here comes the news of that hidcous massacre of poor 
Fairfax and his men, and just overwhelms my little Zu- 
leime !” | 

“ Zuleime? My dear little wife? I trust that nothing has 
been permitted to afflict her?” 

‘The news of Fairfax’s horrible death shocked her into 
a sort of appalled ecstacy, which lasted for twelve hours! 
And from which she was only roused to break into such tears 
and sobs, as [ never heard before, and hope never to hear 
again.” 

The old man wished to prepare Major Cabell, gradually, for 
the announcement he intended to make of the marriage about 
to be broken off. He wished to touch his heart, to excite 
ais sympathy, to awaken his generosity. He even heped—- 
for people will have wild hopes in extremity—that Major 


20a MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 


Cabell might anticipate his wish, and resign his claims. He 
never was more mistaken in his life : 

Majo. Zabell listened in grave silence to his speech, and 
then in high displeasure, exclaimed— 

‘By my soul, sir! this is a very astonishiug and most 
offensive thing, you tei: me! Why should Zuleime grieve 
thus immoderately over the aeath of this young officer. Will 
you explain that ?” 

“Yes! I might say—because he was her intimate com- 
panion in her own home all the summer—and was soon after 
leaving it, so barbarously slaughtered. That is quite a suffi- 
cient reason for the tender-hearted clald to grieve excessively. 
But I will not deceive you, Major Cabell. She loved this 
poor young man!” 

«Sir! Mr. Clifton! By Heaven, sir!’ 

‘¢ Tt cannot be helped, Charley! Hearts cannot be bound 
b; parchment and red tape! She loved this poor Frank 
Fairfax—and her heart is broken by his sudden, dreadful 
ioss. Her grief, poor thing, must have its way! She shail 
rot be troubled!” . 

«¢ And pray, sir,” began Major Cabell, speaking with de- 
liberate scorn— how lung shall this faithless girl be per- 
mitted to weep over the memory of that fellow, before she 
is required to give her hand to one who might have claimed 
it as his right long ago ?” 

“ Charles Cabell,” said the old man, speaking slowly and 
sadly, ‘is it possible that you cuan—that any man could wish 
to marry a broken-hearted girl, mourning over the grave of 
her freshly murdered lover !”’ 

“Wish to marry her? Wish to marry Zuleime? Give 
her tome! Give me Zuleime! Only give her to me, and 
then see! She is my right! I claim her by your promise— 
and I would take her now!” 

“ But you are certainly mad! You would be miserable 
with her !” 

“Should I2 That is my affair! Only give her to me! 
Come! let me have her to-day, or to-morrow, and I wili take 
her home to Richmond with me,” said Major Cabell vehe 
mently, almost fiercely. . 

Old Mr. Clifton looked up at him in surprise, amounting 
elmost to fear 


Mk. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 205 


Have I ever described Majcr Cabell to you? He was a 
small man, with clear cut, sharpened features, and pale face, 
surrounded by light brown hair and whiskers, with very 
handsome dark brown eyes, but with a certain latent ferocity 
in the eyes, and grimness about the thin, set lips. Somehow 
or other he irresistibly reminded you of a hyena—especially 
when he happened to laugh that thin, ungenial laugh. 

The old mar looked at him in surprise, almost amounting 
to fear, and then he said— 

«¢ But she does not love you x0w! She cannot love you 
yet! She loves Frank in his shroud better than any one left 
alive !” 

“I do not care! She must forget Frank, and love me! 
Women can be made to feel or feign anything, by one who 
understands them.” 

*¢ But her heart is breaking, 1 tell you!” 

‘Tt must stop breaking, and nerve itself to life.” 

“‘She is weeping her life away! She is a Niobe, I tell 
you! A living fountain of tears !” 

‘¢She shall dry them and smile! Seeif I do not make 
her do it! Pooh! it is baby love, all this! Do you think 
a girl of her age, can feel any lasting love, or grief, or en- 
during passion of any sort at all? Pooh, pooh! I tell you 
if her lap-dog were killed, she would blubber and weep as 
much over its death, as she does over this other puppy’s fate! 
But, once for all, Mr. Clifton, I tell you I do not intend to 
be put off, or in any way annoyed by this girl’s grief and 
petulance. It is not well for you, her, or myself, that it 
should be indulged. Give her to me at once, according to 
your promise, and afterward I shall know how to deal with 
her—far better than you seem to know.” 

« And you really wish to marry her in her present state, 
and take her home with you ?” 

“Yes! What cdjection? A wedding-party is not an in . 
dispensable accessory to the ceremony. A bridal journey 
from here to Richmond would be a very good substitute. 
Indeed, since the catastrophe of the last wedding-party 
at Cliftoa, J. think the bridal journey would be in the best 
taste.” 

‘“Wmph' And you would marry her so, and so take her 
away ?” - 

13 


206 MR. CLIFTON’S RESOLUTION. 


“ Certainly.” 

‘“ Brute !” 

sc Sir?” 

«“ BrutE, I say' She would rather lie down with Fiank 
in his bloody grave than marry you! And J would rather 
fay my child there—ALtvE—than give her to you! There ! 
it is said! Now, I hope you understand me 

Major Cabell brought his two fierce brown eyes to bear 
npon Mr. Old Gentleman, and gazed as if he thought him 
bereft cf his senses. Then he spoke in a peculiarily thin, 
smooth, distinct voice— 

‘To you mean what you say, sir ?” 

“YesIdo! There!” 

‘¢ And have you duly considered this, sir ?” 

‘Yes I have! There!’ 

“And you know and are prepared to meet the conse- 
quences ?” 

“Yes! Doyour worst! There!” said the old man, set- 
ting down his foot. 

Major Cabell arose and walked up and down the floor in 
deep, perplexed thought. To say that he was surprised at 
this sudden, unexpected rebellion and daring on the part of 
Mr. Clifton would not be sufficient. He was just astounded, 
and could not surmise where the strength of the old man to 
oppose him, with his claims and his power, could come from! 
He thought some external aid had been given! He never 
guessed that it was the internal victory of conscience over 
cowardice. 

Old Mr. Clifton also arose and stretched himeelf, expand- 
ing his chest, and taking a long, deep breath of intense relief 
and satisfaction, saying—— 

“ Thank Henush I feel better. Feel more like a man 
than I have felt for ten years. Now let the worst come, I 
can meet it !” 7 

Major Cabell glanced sideways at him, and continued his 
thoughtful pacing up and down the floor. He was possessed 
with asort of ferocious passion for Zuleime, a passion fanned 
to fury by opposition. He was not one to bend his pride to 
sue. And yet he must have her! Svon, too! 

Old Mr. Clifton, now feeling and looking so much better 
amd franker, and remembering that Major Cahell was his 


MR. CLIFTON S RESOLUTION. 297 


guest as well as his relative, went up to him and held out his 
hand, saying, heartily— 

“Charley, give me your hand! I do not know what you 
are going to do, but I know that I am ready to meet what 
comes! In olden times mortal foes shook hands before they 
entered upon a deadly combat. In our times the executioner 
and his victim exchange courtesies. And the humanity of it 
is a touching comment upon the cruel necessities of our legal 
and social code. Let us not be more ungracious adversaries 
than they. Give meyourhand. You are welcome to Clifton 
as long as you please to give us your company. Sport is 
good now on the mountains, and you can amuse yourself as 
you please.” 

Major Cabell paused in his walk, and placed his hand in 
the open palm of Mr. Clifton, saying— 

“¢J will take you at your word, sir! 1 will remain your 
guest for a few days. I will hope that what you have said 
in regard to the marriage of myself and your daughter, has 
been spoken in haste, and under the influence of anger. I 
trust that you will review your words. To-day you speak from 
excitement—to-morrow I hope that judgment will dictate 
your reply. You will remember that J, too, had something 
to complain of in the fact that my afhanced bride, or one that 
I considered such, should have been so ill guided, or so illy 
guided herself, as to suffer her affections to fall into this en- 
tanglement. But we willsay no more about it now, for I sce 
Mrs. Clifton about to enter.” 

Georgia entered indeed, smiling. 

Old Mr. Clifton seized the opportunity, and while Major 
Cabell was paying his devoirs to the beauty, excused him- 
self and left the room to goand sce how Zuleime was getting 
on, and to reassure her if necessary. 

As soon as he had left the room, Georgia drew Majer Ca- 
bell off to a distant sofa. And they sat down and entered 
upon a long, confidential conversation. And when it was 
ended, they arose and separated with looks of great satisfac- 
tion. 


205 TUE WIDOWED BRIDE 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 


Her look composed, and steady eye, 
Bespoke a matchless constancy,” 
And there she sat, so calm and pale, 

‘ That but her breathing did not fail, 
And motion slight of eye and head, 
And of her boxom warratited 
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, 
You might have thought a form of wax, 
Wrought to the very life was there, 
So still she was, so pale, so fair.—Scort. 


» +uW days after the incidents recorded mm the last chap- 
tri, Mes- corgia Clifton entered Zuleime’s room. The poor 
girt was sitting in an arm-chair near the window, idle, as was 
never he: nabit before, with her hands lying languidly one 
over the over, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy. 

The beausy went to her with her soft, winning way, and 
took her hau, and stole her arm over her shoulder, and said, 
venderly— 

“‘Zuleime, av love, do not sit here by this open window 
Let me close 11, and lead you to the sofa.” 

There is nowlug so quiet as despair, except death. There 
is nothing so ducue as despair often is. The beauty knew 
this by a satanic 1sspiration, and calculated on it. Zuleime 
suffered herself to ve led to the sofa, which was wheeled up 
near the fire, as she would have permitted herself to be led 
any where else. (reorgia sat down by her side, and passed 
her arm around her waist, and said— 

“My dear, I think you love your old father-~do you 
Qe t 2? 

The poor girl raised her eyes mournfully to the lauy 
face, as if she did not understand. 

“You love your father. You would not be willing to. 
see him ruined in fortune, and degraded w honor, would 
you !”? 


IHE WIDOWED BRIDE. 29 


. till Zuleime kept her eyes fixed upon the speaker, with 
an expression of hopeless imbecility. 

“¢My dear child, let me be explicit. And try to snder- 
stand me, Tuleine. It is of vital necessity to your father 
that you should. Will you listen to me, Zuleime ?” 

« Yes,” said the mourner, mechanically, without removing 
her gaze. 

* Well, then, you know your grandmother left you thirty 
thousand dollars? 2 Well. Your father owes debts amount- 
ing to twenty-five thousand dollars, and is in danger of an 
execution or a prison, every day! You would willingly give 
him your fortune to pay his debts with, we know. But, un- 
fortunately, you cannot du it, because you are not of age. 
Neither can your father appropriate it, of course. But if 
you were to marry, then your husband would be in legal! 
possession of that property, and could dispose of it. Now, 
Major Cabell has bought up your father’s notes to the 
amount of eighteen thousand dollars, using all his available 
funds, for the purpose of saving him from great distress, and 
in the expectation of marrying you, his daughter, and ob- 
taining your little fortune, which would replenish his coffers 
again. Now, Zuleime, Major Cabell is himself pressed for 
money. He would not, of course, come down upon your 
father with an execution, but he will be compelled to sell 
those notes again for whatever he can get for them. And 
then of course the purchaser—some Jew or broker, would 
have no such scruples, but would levy on all the personal 
property of his debtor, and most likely throw him into prison, 
where he might languish for years— where he might die! 
Zuleime! you will not suffer this, if you can prevent it, will 
you? Speak to me, my love! I do not believe you under- 
stand me now! Why don’t you answer me, Zuleime ?” 

«J—J don’t know. Yesldo. It was about a—about a 
—about somebody’s going to prison. Was it the murderer? 
Alas, that will not bring him back. Neither do I wish it. 
Not even I, who loved him so. I would not make any body 
suffer, for the world. Ob, no.” 

The beauty looked at the pale girl in deep perplexity a 
moment, and then said— 

<‘ Zuleime, your father is suffering! Let’s see if that will 
rouse you!” 


210 “HE wIDOWED BRIDE. 


“ My father? Oh, no, he mustn’t. Tell him not to mind 
it. J donot, much, now. I know he is at rest. And we 
shall be, soon. Tell him not to mind it.” 

“ Zuleime! Awake! Arouse yourself! Your father is in 
danger, I tell you!” 

“Tn danger—in danger. Tell me about it.” 

«Listen to me, then! Rouse your mind! and fix it 
upon what I am going to tell you about your father’s peril.” 

And the lady took her hands. and looked into her eyes, 
watching their expression, and bringing back her wandering 
ideas every time they showed the “least sign of flying, and 
rousing up her flagging mtellect every time it betrayed a 
disposition to sink—and so repeated the whole history of the 
difficulty over again. Dut the distracted mind of the poor 
girl was scarcely able to follow the pains-taking narrator 
through the facts of the case. Passing her hand once or 
twice across lier corrugated brow, she said— 

« What—what is it you say about father, and prisons, and 
Major Cabeli? I—I am afraid my memory isn’t as good as 
it used to be—please tell me over again.” 

The beauty, with a shrug of her shoulders, reiterated the 
story, placing it in the fewest, simplest, and most direct 
words she could find. But the stricken girl only looked 
sorcly distressed and perplexed, and said, plaintively-— 

‘«‘ Please forgive me, and tell me what it is that threatens 
father !” 

« An execution—that will sweep off all the furniture from 
the house, and all the negroes from the plantation; parting 
husbands and wives, and parents and children, and brothers 
and sisters, among those poor, faithful creatures who love 
you so well. And for your father’s person, a jail, where he 
may be for years, or until he dies.” 

«¢Oh, pray don’t talk to me any more, my head is so wild, 
so wandering, 7 wants to go back to something,” said the 
noor thing, pressing her temples, and strongly attracted te 
her one great wo. 

“¢ But your father!” 

“Yes! Oh, only tell me what you want me to do!” 

“To marry Major Cabell, who will then have the disposa] 
of your fortune, and can cover those notes and save your 
lasner.”’ 


THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 211 


« But—oh, yes! Now I remember. Father said there 
was no necessity!” I needn’t doit!” said the girl, pressing 
her finger hard upon the centre of her forehead, and looking 
keen and old with the mental effort to bring memory, atten- 
tion and understanding to bear upon the subject. ‘Yes, 
yes, yes, yes,—he said I should weep in peace.” 

«¢ Yes, your poor old father loves you better than himself, 
And he said that sooner than you should marry a man you 
did not love, he would die in jail.” 

“Did he? My dear good father! Oh, yes! nowI think 
of it, it was something like that, sure enough! Only my 
head is so queer! He must not go to jail—oh, never !”’ 

“He must, unless you marry Major Cabell, and save 
him.” 

« Well, [can marry Major Cabell—it don’t matter much— 
do you think it does? Spirits up in Heaven know nothing 
of what is going on on earth, or they know all about it, and 
either is better than our deceptive half-knowledge. If spirits 
know anything, they will know our spirit. Dear Frank will 
know—will know my spirit—nay, he does! I feel sure of 
it at this moment. I will marry Major Cabell.” 

“But, Zuleime, if your father thinks you dislike Major 
Cabell, he will not permit you to marry him.” 

«But I don’t dislike Major Cabell. I don’t dislike any 
one. I could notnow. It seems to me that I feel sorry for 
every one. I pity every one. Every one has so much trou- 
ble, mamma! Mamma, I feel sorry for you. Ido not know 
how it is, but I do feel very sorry for you. Have you any 
trouble? You must have. Well, let God do as He pleases 
with you, because He knows best. Besides, it is only for a 
little while. And it will all come right. Kiss me, mamma 
I don’t think I loved you well enough when you first came 
here a stranger. Never mind, I will try to love you more in 
the future.” 

Georgia let the poor girl kiss her, and then arose and vine 
an excuse to go. Zuleime was weakening all her purposes. 
And she was obliged to escape as people fly sometimes from 
a sermon. 

«¢ Please send Kate to me, mamma,” said Zuleime. 

And very soon Catherine entered 

“Dear Kaiz! please come and comb and curl my hair, 


912 THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 


and put on my crimson dress, and make me decent and pretty 
to go down into the parlor to see Cousin Charles. It don’t 
matter, you know, Kate. Frank knows all about it. He 
thinks so, foo. Because he sees my heart is breaking all the 
faster for it, and that I shall the sooner be with him. You 
see, Kate, it is the heart-strings that hold the soul down tx 
the body, and when they snap—there! It is off—it is gone 
like a balloon,—when the cord is cut it ascends to Heaven 
I feel ight like that, sometimes, as if only one little threaa 
kept my soul down, and if it were to snap, I could go.” 

Catherine looked at the mourner in deep trouble. Then 
she began to take down her hair and comb its long sable 
tresses out, because she knew that in itself to be a soothing 
process. And she stood and combed and brushed it a long 
time, and then put it up, and bathed her face and hands. 

«< Now, my crimson dress,” said Zuleime, quietly. 

Catherine sat down by her side, and embracing her affec- 
tionately, said— 

“Dear Zuleime, you are not quite well enough to go dewn 
into the parlor; and, besides, Major Cabell is not here. He 
is gone with some gentlemen upon the mountain to shoot 
birds.” 

Zuleime sat silent for a long time, enveloped by Cathe- 
rine’s arms, and leaning upon her shoulder. At last Kate 
whispered— 

‘«¢ Dear Zuleime, confide in me, and relieve your overbur- 
dened bosom. A secret is so hard to keep alone in a sor- 
rowful breast. Lay yours on my heart, Zuleime, and it shall 
be safer there than my own life. Tell me—what tie is it 
that binds you to Frank?’ 

“¢ Hush, oh, hush !” 

“Tell me, darling—you know it is not from curiosity I 
ask—it 1s that [ wish you to relieve your heart.” 

“Hush! I prompsed him not to tell.” 

* Death absolves you from that promise. A painful secret 
is very hard to keep alone. J know it, dearest, for J, too, 
have a secret. Now will you trust me?’ 

“Hush! hush! It was his last reqaest—I must comply 
with it!” said the girl, with wild eyes. 

Catherine knelt down before her, clasped her arms around 
her, and partly to win ha confidence, and partly to draw 


THE WIDOWED BRID&. 213 


her mind from dwelling upon the wo that was crazing her, 
said :— 

“ Zuleime, look at me. I am going to tell you my secret, 
that which it will pain and humble my heart to tell !—that 
which it makes my cheek burn now only to think of! Zu- 
Jeime, I love a man who never sought, and who would despise 
my love! And with whom it is forever and forever impossi - 
ble that I should marry. Yet I love him so much—so mucu, 
that my heart is ready to burst with its powerless longing to 
do him some good! Zuleime, I would give him myself— 
(nay, never mind my cheek burning—TI will speak in spite of 
its protest)—or any dearest faculty or possession of mine, if 
it only could increase his happiness. Zuleime, there is a 
richness and fullness of joy in sacrificing one’s self for one 
we love that passes all understanding.” 

‘‘T know there is,” breathed the mourner, looking down 
in her face seriously. 

“‘ That is the joy that I long for. And oh, believe me, I 
would sacrifice myself or any possession or faculty I have, if 
it would only add to his happiness or power. Jiyesight is a 
precious treasure, is it not? If I could give mine to him, 
and endow him with perfect vision down to deep old age, I 
would consent to be dark forever. The power of speech is 
a great gift—if by the loss of mine I could endow him with 
irresistible eloquence, I would be dumb forever. He thinks, 
Yuleime, that I have talent. And sometimes J think—but 
I don’t know, either! Anyhow, if by yielding a/l mine I 
could add a mite to the treasures of his intellect, I would be 
willing to be a fool for life. In a word—if by abdicating all 
my being, I could add to the largeness of his life, I would 
clow with joy to do it.” 

“Do not love him so! He will dieif youdo! Jknow 
wz! Frank died!” 

«¢ And yet, Zuleime, it is not that I wish to Jose my being, 
but to add to it. I do not know why it is, but I feel— not 
like an individual, independent existence, but like the 
complement of that other existence—a half life—not full 
and complete of itself, waiting to be joined to the other 
nali.” 

‘Te will love you. He will find you out,” said Zuleime 
And her words, and tone, and look thrilled like a prophecy 


914 THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 


to the heart of Catherine, but she shook her head gravely, 
and answered— 

«¢ Never, Zuleime! It would bea sin even to hope it! --— 
But, Zuleime, I have laid my secret on your heart—now wili 
you confide in me ?”” 

“Oh, Kate! I would do it. I wish to do it' But I 
promised him!” 

‘‘ Dear Zuleime, when he required that of you, he did not 
think what might, what has happened. You must tell me, 
Zuleime. For if you have not some one with whom you can 
talk freely, you—I fear for you. You cannot bear your 
burden alone! Few human beings can! Tell me, darling ?” 

‘Oh, Kate! It was the last thing he asked me' I must 
comply with his wish !” 

«‘ Zuleime! Iam about to cast away all reserve! I am 
about to tell you the name of him I love so madly. It is 
Archer Clifton, your cousin—your sister’s betrothed! There! 
I have thrown open the very sanctuary of my heart to you. 
I have shown its secret sin and shame! Now, will you con- 
fide in me!” 

‘Dear Kate! Dearest Kate! My own secret’s without 
reserve, but not another’s.” 

Catherine arose and took-the seat by the mourner’s side. — 
Well would it have been for Zuleime in after life, if she 
could now have made a confidant as well as friend of the 
rxcellent girl. But at least Catherine’s efforts had not been 
all in vain. The mind of the mourner was a little more 
rational—her part in conversation not quite so distrait. 
Presently Zuleime said— 

“Tt is getting towards evening. Cousin Charles will be 
back to supper. Curl my hair, Kate! and put on my crim- 
son dress, I must go down and spend the evening with them 
in the parlor! I must, Kate. It is for my dear father’s 
sake! You do not know, Kate, else you would also advise 
it ”? 

Catherine essayed to prevent her, but finding her quite 
determined, yielded the point, and assisted her to dress, 
When her toilet was complete, she sat down again upon the 
sofa, and put her hand to her head in troubled thought. 
Then at last she spoke, saying— 

“ Kate! Lam afraid. It scems to me that —that my head 


THE WIDOWED BRIDE. o1S 


has not been quite right. And—and my speech has not 
been quite to the point. Kate, I want you to tell me—can 
I trust myself to talk, do you think? or had I better not try 
this evening? They might think me crazy if I should not 
talk straight! But I am not! I am not crazy—only— 
Tell me how I am, and what I had better do, dear Kate ?” 

“Try to attend and be interested in what is going on, 
dearest, and talk when occasion presents itself. And do not 
be afraid. Every one will understand it is only nervousness, 
darling.” 

“ You encourage me, Catherine,” said the poor girl, “and 
now just give me your arm down stairs.” 

Kate complied with her request. 

The parlor was empty when they entered, and Zuleime 
had an opportunity of settling herself in a large arm-chair, 
and composing herself, before any one came in. Mr. Clifton, 
Major Cabell, and several other gentlemen returned from the 
thooting excursion and entered the parlor together. Mr. 
Clifton looked surprised and pleased to see Zuleime, “ clothed 
and in her right mind ;”? and Major Cabell seemed interested 
and curious. Zuleime arose, and supported herself by rest- 
ing one hand upon the arm of the chair, while she received 
the greetings of her father’s guests. And thanks to the 
shadowing of the black lustrous curls, and the reflection of 
the crimson dress, none could see the wanness of her face. 
Mrs. Clifton and Miss Clifton entered soon after, and in the 
general conversation that ensued, poor Zuleime escaped par- 
ticular notice. Once Major Cabell contrived, without draw- 
ing attention upon himself, to find his way to her side, and 
miter into conversation with her. And he was surprised, 
perplexed, nonplussed at the gentleness and almost tender- 
ness of her manner. Before leaving her he asked— 

*s When can I have an interview with you, Zuleime ?” 

‘Whenever you please, Cousin Charles,” she answered, 
gently. 

At parting, he pressed her hand, and to his surprise, the 
pressure was softly returned. And he left her, thinking 
‘‘ the sex” more of a riddle than he ever thought it before. 

The next day, about noon, Major Cabell and Zuleime met 
in the saloon, and had an interview of nearly an hcur’s 
length. 


216 TITE WIDOWED BRIDE 


When Zuleime left him and came out, she met her father 
in the hall. Taking his hands in hers, she looked up in his 
troubled face and said— 

“‘ Dear father! you remember many weeks ago, you asked 
me to fix the day when I should be married to Cousin 
Charles ?” 

“Never mind, never mind, my dear! That is all over 
now! You shall not be troubled, my love !” 

‘Dear father, I have just told Cousin Charles that I will 
give him my hand on Tuesday fortnight,” said Zuleime, and 
pressing both the old man’s hands to her lips, she turned and 
jeft him standing there in speechless astonishment, while she 
went up stairs—and throwing herself upon her knees by her 
bed, buried her face in the clothes, and breathed—* It won’t 
be for long, Frank! Oh! Frank, you know it won’t be for 
long '” 


THE YOUNG MOURNER. 217 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE YOUNG MOURNER. 


Mine after life? What 1s mine after life? 
My day is closed. The gloom of night comes on, 
A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate-—Joanna BaJuuie. 


THERE is no state of mind so calm as that of hopelessness 
And, therefore, there is none so often mistaken for resigna- 
tion. Zuleime’s cheeks were pale and hollow, her eyes 
heavy and sunken, and surrounded by a dark, livid circle— 
aud she had contracted an unconscious habit of pressing her 
hand tightly over her heart, while a look of pain corrugated 
her brow. Yet, withal, she moved through the house very 
quietly—without a sigh or a tear—yea, even with a smile for 
whom she chanced to meet—a wan smile of tenderness, fel- 
low-feeling. Tor the grief that had come to her own young 
heart, had revealed to her the secret of a general sorrow, 
and awakened a deep human sympathy. Yet perhaps it was 
a morbid excess of this feeling that made her see, in every 
one she met, a fellow-sufferer. Her father misunderstood 
her serenity and her sweet smile. And his wife led him into 
that misunderstanding. 

«‘ Tt is a merciful provision of Heaven, that young people 
of her tender age, can feel no lasting grief. At first, over 
any misfortune they lament excessively. But it is very 
soon forgotten,” said Georgia. 

« Ah, yes! Charley Cabell said something like the same 
thing, and, indeed, it seems to be true,” replied Mr. Clifton. 

We are easily persuaded to believe that which we wish to 
eredit. And so the old gentleman believed in the correctness 
of lis wife’s judgment, and in the reality of his daughter’s 
peace, 

Major Cabell was baffled and perplexed. ‘Jealousy is as 
erucl as the grave,” and so, also, is that Lase passion which 


218 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 


often goes by the holy name of Love. It had been ander 
the influence of both of these that Charles Cabell had sworn 
to punish Zuleime severely for what he called her faithless- 
ness. Lut for the present, at least, he was completely frus- 
trated. There was nothing w complain of in her conduct to 
him. She was very kind and genvie—not witb tne gentleness 
of meekness end humility, but with that of a compassionate 
toleration--such as an angel might feel in looking down 
upon a determined sinner—seeing his moral insanity, and 
foreseeing his consequent wretchedness. Major Cabell had 
frequently heard of mourners who could not bear to hear the 
names of their beloved, lamented dead, spoken before them. 
And he thought to torture her bosom by frequently revert- 
ing to “that horrible massacre,” and “poor Frank.” But 
he could not add one pang to those she had already endured 
Her sorrow was too deep to be probed—to be touched by a 
superficial hand like his. She could bear to listen and reply 
when he talked of her massacred love. For like a stationary 
panorama of the past and the present, his life and death were 
ever before her mind. She could converse, without new 
emotion, of him over whose fate, in its deepest, darkest hor- 
rors, she was ever brooding. If any mourners cannot brook 
to hear the name of the lost mentioned in their presence, it 
is because they are already blessed with long seasons of for- 
getfulness, and shrink from the pain of remembrance. She 
had no such pang of sudden recollection to dread. His me- 
mory— her sorrow—was ever present with her. 

Catherine watchea her with deep and painful interest. 
She sought an opportunity, and once more had a serious con- 
versation with her. 

*‘Zuleime, don’t marry under present circumstances. If, 
as you say, your father is in the power of Major Cabell, it is 
bad. But if you marry him to deliver your father, it will be 
worse, and will not eventuate in any good. And two wrongs 
never make a right, Zuleime. Do no wrong, dearest, but 
trust in God for deliverance,” said Catherine, earnestly. 

“It seems to me that I am doing right. It will jlease 
Cousin Charles, and save father. And as for myself—it 
can’t matter much, you know,” replied the despairing girl. 
And to this view of the case she adhered, with all the tenacity 
of a morbid resolution. 


THE YOUNG MOURNER. 219 


A few days after this Catherine returned to her brother’s 
cabin, wondering what new misfortune would—azgainst her 
fixed determination—throw her back among the Cliftons. 

Major Cabell had written to Richmond for his mother and 
sisters to come down and be present at his marriage. And 
one day, near the last of the week, the carriage of Mrs. 
Cabell rolled up to the door. Knowing nothing whatsoever 
of Zuleime’s attachment to the young soldier, and consequent 
deep gricf at his fate, they were very much shocked to see 
her looking so ill, but quietly ascribed it to fatigue and anx- 
iety in nursing Carolyn. And Mrs. Cabell was emphatic in — 
demonstrations of motherly kindness, which the gentle girl 
acknowledged with grateful smiles, and by such attentions as 
she had the powcr to bestow. The city ladies had made a 
short stage that day, and were but little wearied, so that 
after a little slumber, and the refreshment of the bath, and 
of tea, they felt well enough to spend the evemmg in the 
parlor. 

The family were all around the evening fire, when Mrs, 
Cabell and her daughters entered. 

Major Cabell-—who was as usual sitting by Zuleime, with 
his arm over the back of her chair in a property-holding sort 
of manner—arose, and handing his mother to a seat, received 
from her hand a roll of papers. 

“<Tt is some new music, my son, for the dear girls. There 
are some beautiful songs of Moore’s just published. Carolya, 
love, I have thirsted to hear your sweet voice again. Will 
you sing ?” 

Miss Clifton’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away 
her head. 

Zuleime stole to her aunt’s side, and while seeming to 2x- 
amine the music, whispered— 

“ Dear Aunt Cabell, Carolyn has entirely lost her voice!” 

The lady was very much shocked to hear it, and grieved at 
her own unfortunate proposition, but durst not trust herself 
to reply, lest Carolyn should hear and understand the sub- 
ject of their conversation. 

Major Cabell, who was turning over the music, suddenly 
had his gaze fixed -by one particular piece. His eyes lighted 
ev with a peculiar satisfaction, and turning to Zuleime, he 


 gaid- 


920 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 


“¢ My own. you can read music at sight. Can you nat?” 

“Yes,” replied the girl. 

«* And you can sing and play at sight—can you not ?”” 

“ Yes, if it is not too difficult.” 

“Ts this difficult ?” he asked, holding a page out to her. 

‘«‘ No, that is very simple,” said Zuleime, looking entirsiy 
at the music—not at the words. 

‘“‘It is a ballad of Thomas Moore’s. I wish you to sing it 
for us. Will you?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“¢ Come, then,” he'said, and took her hand, and led her 
to the piano. He seated her, and laid the song before her, 
sayirg to himself, «If she can sing that through without emo< 
tion—ay, or with emotion—if she can get through it at all-~ 
she can do, or suffer anything! She is a heroine.” 

Zuleime was reading over the words, preparatory to sing- — 
ing them. 

“And he was watching her intently. But she read through 
the song, turning the leaves calmly, her pale cheek never 
changing its hue. Then she restored the first page to its 
place before her, and began to play the prelude. ‘The ladies 
and old Mr. Clifton drew near, and gathered around her. 
Then her voice arose, soft, clear and plaintive, but unfalter- 
ing as her cheek remained unchanging—though her father 
trembled for her as the words of the song fell on his ear. 
That song was “The Broken Heart,” by Thomas Moore. 
Zv}oime sang— 


She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. 
And lovers around her are sighing, 

But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, 
For her heart in his grave is lyi ing. 

She sings the wild songs of ber dear native plains, 
Every note which he loved awaking : 

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. 


Her voice faltered—she paused. 

“¢ Come’! no miserable, maudlin, mawkish self-pity, I he- 
-rech you!” whispered Major Cabell, stooping to her ear, 

Whether Mr. Clifton heard the acael whisper, or whether 
ne only saw her slight agitation, is uncertaim—but he drew 
near anc stood by her side. She recovered, and continued-~ 


THS YOUNG MOURNER. 22.1 


He had lived for his love, for his country he died, 
They were all that to life- — 

She paused again—-again essayed to sing—her voice qua 
vering, sunk into silence like the rudely-swept strings of the 
harpsichord—the grayness of death crept over her counte- 
nance, and she fell back into the arms of her father, who 
angrily exclaimed— , 

Charles! you are a brute! a demon! to ask her to sing 
that song. Zuleime! Zuleime, my darling! speak to me!” 

He sat down on the sofa, holding her in his arms. The 
ladies drew around with fans, with cold water, with hartshorn. 
But she recovered very soon, and sat up—and declined going 
up stairs to bed—and thanked them all for their care, gently 
begging them not to take so much trouble on her ac- 
count. 

“This is all very strange, madam,” said Mrs. Cabell, aside 
to Mrs. Clifton. 

‘¢ Zuleime is so nervous and sensitive ever since Carolyn’s 
illness, that the news of that massacre, and the death of her 
old playmate and companion, has quite overwhelmed her. I 
suppose this music awoke her sensibilities,” said Georgia, 
composedly. 

If Mrs. Cabell had any suspicion of the trvth, she was too 
well bred to express it then and there. And the matter ended 
for the moment. 

But after this evening, Zuleime ws never the same. Her 
fortitude seemed entirely to have giver. away. Her calmness 
was utterly broken up. A strange, wild terror and incerti- 
tude had come upon her. 

The next day, Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to 
call on the visitors. Nevetleless, in the course of the call, 
Major Cabell found the opportunity he sought, of taking Zue 
leime to task for what he called her miserable weakness. 

“You are unfaithfr]—false at heart—you- cherish the 
image of this young mer secretly, while you pretend to be 
true tome! Pah! Well! why don’t you answer me? Have 
you anything to sa-7?” 

“ Cousin Charles, does not the grave sanctify any affec- 
tion? Is it a vtime to remember a dead friend ” 

“Tt is wiv rable, druling weakness! a maudlin, mawkish, 
s4rrlig priirg piece o° unfaithfulness to duty—and leads 

1? 


“ae 


2 THE YOUNK MOURNER. 


nw 
Ni 


you into the exhibition of such scenes as that of ae night 
Such whining, whimpering, contemptible se/f-mty! I protest 
you are the most false-hearted and selfish wezaan I ever met 
with in my life. It is your own griefs and regrets and re- 
verses, that occupy you all the time. And now! instead of 
listening to me, and replying—you are falling away inte 
thought again! Come! answer me, now! Was it not self- 
pity, that caused you to faint during the singing of that @ 
propos song—which, by the way, I gave you as an ordeal! 
Come! say! Wasn’t it self-pity ?” 

“6 No, nor was it the song. If I pitied myself, should I 
not pity you as much? Itis not sucha happy fate, Cousin 
Uharles, to marry a grief-stricken girl like me, I know.” 

“No! If I calculate upon your continued indulgence of 
that grief, which I do not! Vo! Trust me on the part of 
my wife, there must and shall be no such exhibitions of feel- 
ing as that of last night.” 

“JT do not know why you wish to marry me!” she broke 
forth, with strange wildness. ‘* You-do not love me! Per- 
haps you hate me, and marriage will give you the same power 
to work out your hate as it would to act out your love! Yes! 
I do suppose that is really the key to the riddle !” 

‘«‘ Perhaps it is,” he answered, sarcastically. 

«One thing I beg of you,” she said; ‘ while we stay here 
—in my father’s presence—try to use me kindly—to spare 
his feelings—he is an old man. Reserve your vengeance 
until Iam your wife, until we get to Richmond, when you 
will have full power, and ample time and space to work your 
will.” 

While she spoke so wildly, she pressed and rubbed her 
hand spasmodically against her heart. And her pale brow 
was corrugated, and her intense black eyes strained and sharp- 
ened as by mental and physical pain. She gasped for breath, 
and began again. 

“J do not know—I am sure—I cannot tell—whether, 

after all, we will ever mar—” 

What she was about to say was cut short by the entrance 
of Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, who came in, with her shawl 

and bonnet on, to take leave of Zuleime and Major Cabell, 
and invite them to join the rest of the family in coming te 
dine and spend the evening at Hardbargain the next day 


THE YOUNG MOURNER. 223 


Major Cabell accepted the invitation for himself and Zuleime, 
and the lady took her departure. 

The next day was Saturday. The family set out on their 
visit at an early hour of the day, as is the social custom of 
country neighbors. Old Mr. Clifton, his wife, and his eldest 
daughter, rode in his carry-all. Mrs. Cabell and her three 
daughters went in that lady’s carriage. Zuleime rode on 
hurseback, attended by Major Cabell. 

It was a glorious Indian summer day, when the splendor 
of the autumnal sunlight would be too dazzling, but for the 
soft, warm mist spread veil-like over it. At another time, 
Zuleime, true worshiper of nature, might have drawn deep 
draughts of pleasure from the beauty of the scene. But 
now the gorgeous magnificence of the forests, in their many 
colered foliage—the misty mountain steeps softening the glory 
—the fine transparent neutral tint of the heavens leading 
the eye and mind up through infinite heights of ether—the 
glowing clouds reposing along the horizon—all were lost upon 
her. ) 

An hour’s ride by the carriage road brought the party te 
Hardbargain. 

Mrs. Clifton received them with her usual quiet cordiality 
There was something very composing in that calm, kind, self. 
possessed woman’s manner. There was something very se- 
dative also in the air of her home. In her company and in 
her house the restless became quiet, the anxious easy, the 
desponding cheerful, even the despairing mourners over some 
great heart-wreck, grew languidly aware of how much good 
was left them in the comforts of daily domestic life, and the 
amenities of social intercourse. 

She was strikingly like ber son. One was inclined to won- 
der how they—so nearly identical in features and complexion 
—-should differ so widely in many points of character and 
sentiment, and had to remember that all in which he did not 
resemble her was inherited from the Cliftons. Kate felt the 
likeness keenly.. And when the lady turned those quiet, 
brilliant eyes upon her, her heart thrilled to the glance with 
strange pain and pleasure. And when once or twice-—fcr 
the lady was never very demonstrative in her affection—she 
had quietly drawn the maiden to her bosom— it was such a 
heart-feeding comfort, that Kate felt there would be no pos- 


934 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 


sibility of forgetting Archer Clifton, while thrown into daily 
intercourse with his mother. Once when Mrs. Clifton had 
looked tenderly into her eyes, and drawn and pressed her 
closely against her breast, the girl, lost for an instant, had 
thrown her arms around the lady, and buried her face in her 
bosom. And for some time after that, terrified at her own 
impulse, she had been as shy of the mother, as she could have, 
been of the son. Kate had kept away from Hardbargain for 
many weeks, but to-day, when the party from White Cliffs had 
arrived, Mrs. Clifton sent for her, with the message that her 
friend Zuleime had come. That was no sufficient Jure to the 
resolute girl, however, who had once for all determined that 
nothing but the absolute necessities of others should draw 
her again into the dangerous association of the Cliftons. She 
returned thanks to the lady, declining the visit. Mrs. Clif- 
ton was disappointed in missing the society of her young fa- 
vorite for that day. Yet the time passed very pleasantly 
notwithstanding. There is scarcely any such thing as a stiff 
dinner party in the country. And such a thing was impos- 
sible at Hardbargain. The ladies had all brought their 
“ parlor’ work’’—fine netting, knotting, knitting, or sewing— 
and they worked and conversed ina quiet, pleasant way, 
while the gentlemen mingled in their conversation, or talked 
with each other upon the two reigning subjects of country 
discussion—agriculture and politics—or sauntered out upon 
the lawn to enjoy the fine autumnal weather until dinner. 
After which, the ladies in the cozy parlor lounged a little 
more lazily, and grew a great deal more kindly in their inter- | 
change of thought and sentiment, and the gentlemen enjoyed 
a promenade on the piazza, and the stolen luxury of their 
cigars. 

After an early tea the party took leave. They returned 
in the same manner in which they had come. Zuleime on 
horseback, escorted by Major Cabell ; the others in carriages, 
Even the soothing influence of Mrs. Clifton’s home and 
society had almost failed to quiet the miserable girl. Her 
manner, all day long, had been erratic in the extreme—now 
depressed into gloom—sunken nearly to the depth of stu- 
Sea tema full of ‘starts and flows” as the crime- 

urthened Macbeth. As she rode home, in perfect silence, 
-he evil eye of her companion watched her stealthily. Mer 


THA YOUNG MOURNER. 225 


cheek was pale and hoilow, and her eye sunken and heavy. 
Let sometimes her eyes would lighten as with sudden terror, 
like those of a startled hare, and her cheek would flush and 
lade. The road was broad, yet shadowy, from the meeting 
of the branches of the huge trees overhead. And so soon 
as the sun went down if became too dusky to permit him to 
see the flickering and sinking of the fire in her eye and cheek, 
but he watched her closely, nevertheless. Suddenly he saw 
her sway to and fro in the saddle, like a reed blown by the 
wind. ‘Then, ere he could spring to her aid, the reins dropped 
from her hands, and she fell from the horse, her foot catch- 
ing in the stirrup. The well-trained palfrey stopped, and 
stood without so much as lifting a hoof. With a deep curse, 
Major Cabell threw himself from his steed, and raised her, 
disengaging her foot from the stirrup. He sat down on a 
hank, with her on his knees, and took off her hat, and began 
to feel her head, neck and arms, for injuries. It seemed im- 
possible to tell whether, or how she was hurt. The carriages 
were some yards behind, and concealed by a turn of the road. 
He dipped his hand in a run, at the foot of the bank, and 
sprinkled her face ; and before the carriages arrived, she had 
opened her eyes, and sat up. She said that she was not hurt— 
that it was only a fainting spell, such as she had had at -the 
piano. But her voice was very weak, and her frame trem- 
bling, and her general manner frightened, She placed her 
hand against Major Cabell’s chest, , partly to assist herself in 
rising, partly to push him away, and stood alone upon her 
feet, until her father’s carriage drew up. ‘Then she said she 
was tired, and wished to get in. 

Old Mr. Clifton sent a glance of impotent rage at Major 
Cabell, as he lifted his child in—placing her in the vacant 
fourth seat—the other three being occupied by his wife, eldest 
daught.r, and himself. 

Zuleine sat next to her sister, and opposite Georgia; and 
tle last mentioned lady studied her vis-a-vis, with as much 
interest, and with far more curiosity and comprehension, than 
Major Cabell had exercised. 

The girl sat perfectly still, and quite lost to all around 
her. But Georgia saw that it was the fearful stillness of 
svil-restrained frenzy. 

They reached home at last. Georgia was handed out first 


996 THE YOUNG MOURNER. 


she waited for Zuleime, who followed. She wished to draw 
the girl’s arm within her own. But Zuleime, turning on her 
a dilated, strained, fiery gaze, fled past her into the house. 
And then the lady saw, with a shudder, that it was indecd 
the fires of incipient madness that kindled the lambent flame 
in the girl’s eyes! 

When they were all assembled in the parlor, around the 
evening fire, with books, and music, and light needle-work— 

«Where is Zuleime ®” asked her father. 

“She has retired to her room, very much fatigued,” re- 
plied his wife, and the subject dropped. 

The next morning, when the family gathered around the 
breakfast- table, the youngest daughter was still missing. 

“Where is Zuleime* Why doesn’t Zuleime come? Caro- 
lyn, have you seen your sister this morning? How is she?” 
asked old Mr. Clifton. | 

Carolyn replied that she had not seen her since the pre- 
eeding evering. 

«“ Send some one, then, to her chamber, to see how she is, 
and whether she will join us at breakfast, or have anything 
sent up to her room. Or—stay! Carolyn, don’t send—go 
yourself, my love, to your sister, it will be only kind.” 

Carolyn left the table, and went up stairs, and after an 
absence of fifteen or twenty minutes, returned, and announced, 
with a pale cheek, that Zuleitme’s chamber had not been oc- 
cupied during the night—that she herself was no where to be 
found in the house—and that no one of the servants had seen 
her since the evening before! 

A dreadful suspicion instantly seized upon all who remem- 
bered her wild and moody looks and manners of the preceding 
few days; and they simultaneously arose from the table, and 
with looks of alarm, dispersed in various directions, in quest 
of the missing girl. 

The house, kitchen, dut-buildings, negro quarters, garden, 
vineyard, orchard, the plantation and the woods were succes 
sively and vainly searched. 

Messengers were dispatched to Hardbargain and to the 
neighboring plantations, with inquiries that proved fruitless. 

Old Mr. Clifton ran up and down the house and grounds 
like one distracted. 

At last, near night, traces were discovered of the lost one. 


TEE YOUNG MOURNER. 227 


Upon the edge of the stream, where the banks were soft and 
deep, small foot-prints were seen—and half-way down the 
bank her little slipper was found, with its toe deep in tho 
mud, and the heel sticking up, as if lost there in the down- 
ward run of its owner—and from the branch of a sapling 
near, a shrea vf her crimson dress fluttered, as if caught and 
torn off in the same swift descent. 

Old-Mr. Clifton walked down there, to see the spot; but 
ire was carried back. 

And before the next sun arose, Mrs. Georgia Clifton had 
her heart’s first desire. 

She was a widow 


223 CONFESBION. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


CONFESSION. 


I was so young—1 loved him so—I had 
No mother—God foryot me—and | fe.l! 
BrowninG—B ot ON THE ’SCUTCHEON 


A RETROSPECT of several hours is necessary here. You 
will remember that during the drive home from Hardbargain, 
Mrs. Georgia Clifton had watched Zuleime with much in- 
terest and curiosity, and with more perspicuity. When the 
unfortunate girl had sprung from the carriage, and fled up 
the steps into the house, Mrs. Clifton had followed her. In- 
stead of going up into her chamber, she had passed directly 
through the hall, and gone out at the back-door—Georgis 
having kept near her. ‘I'here was the kitchen garden at the 
back of the house, and then the vineyard, and then the 
orchard—through all these she suceessive!y passed, with the 
same wild, hurried gait, and entered the forest beyond, and 
descended into the deep glen, through which the mountain- 
stream roared. It was very difficult to follow the reckless 
steps of the fugitive down this rough declivity, and while 
cautiously descending, with the aid of projecting fragments 
of rock and smaller branches of trees and bushes, Georgia 
lost sight of the girl. When she reached the bottom of the 
gorge, through wlfich the torrent raged and raved, Zulcime 
was no where to be seen. 

The night was very dark, and though a few large, brilliant 
stars were to be seen directly over head, yet low from the 
horizon, heavy, black masses of clouds were slowly rolling 
up. And the wind moaned and died away at intervals— 
prophetic of the winter’s storm. The single, large stars 
overhead were reflected in the stream—not clearly and 
ealinly, but plunging and leaping with the wild water. The 
banks each side Jay shrouded in gloom and mystery, rocks 


CONFESSION. 229 


and trees indistinctly blended together in dark and sombre 
hues. ‘The everlasting mountains stood around, vast, vague, 
and awful. The seven white peaks gleamed up in the back 
ground, like the ghostly genii of the scene. <A shiver of 
superstitioug fear shook the frame of Georgia, and she had 
turned to retrace her steps home, when a sound between a 
moan and a suffocating sob arrested her purpose. She crept 
towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and there, 
half hidden in the deep gloom of overhanging willows, she 
dimly disoerned the figure of the unhappy girl, bending over 
the stream, and gazing intently upon the water, where the 
reflection of the stars leaped and plunged with the waves. 
As if communing with herself, she murmured—“ There is 
fae there! There is peace there!” Then her form bent 
ower, her gaze grew more earnest and intense, as though 
body, soul and spirit were irresistibly fascinated, drawn 
down by the glamour of the water! And—“ There is peace, 
deep peace there,” she muttered! How stormy must have 
been the soul that saw deep peace in the raging torrent! 
Her eyes shone in the dusk with a bright, phosphoric light, 
and still pouring their splendcr upon the dark, wild water, 
she murmured—* Peace! deep peace.” Suddenly up flew 
her arms, and she sprang forward. 

The ready hand of Georgia caught her shoulder and pulled 
her back, exclaiming— 

“Mad girl! What are you about to do?” 

Zuleime sprang around with her eyes all wide and ablaze, 
like one suddenly waking up from a terrible dream, and not 
yet quite brought to consciousness. Georgia drew her away 
from the dangerous proximity of the torrent. Zuleime threw 
her hands to her head with sudden recollection and intensity 
of consciousness, and sunk down at the feet of the lady, 
clasping her knees, and exclaimmg— 

‘¢Qh! you don® know what you’ve done! Why did you 
}iuck me back! There was peace there! The only peace 
left for me!” 

‘¢ You are frantic, miserable girl! What is the meaning 
of this madness?’ asked Georgia, in a stern, curt tone. 
Convulsive sobs, shaking as with a tempest the form of the 
girl, alone answered her. 

“ VYhat will your father—what will your intended his 


230 CONFESSION. 


band think of this? Say! Speak! What do you suppose 
Major Cabeil—”’ . 

“Oh! do not speak of him!” gasped the girl. 

“¢ Will you tell me what you mean by this conduct?” 
sneered Georgia. 

«© Mamma—” commenced Zuleime but her voice brcke 
down. 

“Zuleime! come get up and come home !” 

“Oh, no, no, no! Not home! NVever home again!” 

“Once more, what am I to think of this frantic be- 
haviour. 

«¢ Mamma !”’ 

‘“‘ Don’t call me mamma, if you please! It may not be 
Pee or politic, to acknowledge that tender relationship. 

ut explain yourself, lest I bring you to those who will de- 
mand the explanation with less forbearance !” 

“Mercy! merey! I will tell you anything! everything! 
Only do not kill my father with the story !” 

<< Speak, then !” 

“ Lady—” 

“Well !” 

But some feeling stronger than fear, gripped her tears 
and stopped her speech. 

“ Zuleime! How long will you try my patience ?’ 

“ Madam—” 

Another hesitation. 

«What, then ?” 

““T have been—a wife! I am—a widow! I am fated 
to be—” 

“‘ Well,” asked Georgia, in a deep-drawn [reath between 
her teeth, “‘ you are fated to be—” 

“<A mother !” breathed the girl, in a dying voice, cover- 
ing her face with both hands, and sinking lower on the 
ground. 

There was a long, deep pause, filled up with the roar of 
the torrent and th2 moan of the rising wind. Suddenly 
up sprang Zuleime, with fire in her eyes, and made a dash 
towards the water. The swift arm of Georgia caught and 
dragged her back. No word was spoken yct. The impulse 
of frenzy passed off, and Zuleime sunk into her old 
vosture, 


CONFESSION. 231 


“ Get up,” at last said Georgia, half-shaking, half-putting 
the girl upon her feet. ‘‘ Get up and come with me.” 

And she drew her to a fragment cf rock, at a safer lise 
tance, pushed her down on the seat, and dropped herself by 
her side. 

«¢ Now, tell me of this,’? she commanded, in a hard, curt 
tone. ‘ You were married 2?” 

“‘ Yes, yes!” 

<¢ Who was your husband ?” 

“Ah, you know! You must know! He who died in 
yonder field of blood, under the tomahawk of the Shosho- 
nowa—lI am very wretched !” 

“Stay !—is this true—about the marriage, I mean ¥” 

“True as God’s Word!” 

“Certainly the marriage was not legal without your 
father’s consent, and would have been annulled by him. But 
now he will permit his consent to be supposed. Let’s see! 
the widow of an army officer entitled to his half-pay, per- 
haps; I do not know—perhaps to a pension, too, as he died 
in the field of battle. Zuleime, upon the whole, I think that 
you were rash to attempt suicide. Your position and pros- 
pects are not so bad. If Major Cabell is anxious to possess 
you, now that he supposes you to be a maudlin, love-sick 
girl, grieving yourself to death over the grave of your lover, 
he will be quite as willing to marry you a year hence, when 
he knows you to be the widow of Captain Fairfax—for that, 
I understand, was his rank when he fell. Come, girl, live! 
Acknowledge your marriage, like a truthful woman! Bring 
your child into God’s world like a Christian woman! And 
after a sufficient time has elapsed, marry Major Cabell, like 
a sensible woman! For I do assure you, that the gallant 
Major is sufficiently enamored of your young beauty to wait 
that length of time, if compelled to do so.” 

“© Ah, yes! J think he is enamored of me as the Shosho- 
nowa was of poor Frank’s hair!”’ bitterly said the girl. 

_ “This marriage must be announced at once! Who per 
formed the ceremony ?” 

«Old Mr. Saunders, the Baptist preacher.” 

“ What! He who was found dead in-his bed. 

«¢ Yes, yes, it was he!” 

“Tity for your sake that he is dead! But, you doubtless 


932 CONFESSION. 


had some confidant, some witness—Kate Kavanagh, perhaps, 
or some one else? Say! speak! There was some witness 
to your marriage, who can be produced to prove it?” 

“No! There was none! It was so sudden!” 

“ None !—no proof of your marriage? Yet stup—stay !— 
there is a chance yet, I believe; I do not know. You were 
married with a license, of course ? 

“Yes, yes!” 

‘©The county clerk who issued it will prebably remenber 
the occurrence. That will be something in vour favor, 
though, alas! only imperfect, circumstantial evidence ; for 
the mere taking out of a license is no conclusive proof of a 
marriage.” 

“Ah, great or small, as proof it is of ne avail. The 
license was procured b/ank, for Carolyn and Archer, because 
he had forgotten her full name, and it was afterwards filled 
out with our nanies.” 

“No matter. You were married with it' And now I 
remember a saving thing! The clergyman who married you 
of course affixed his certificate of marriage to the license, and 
gave it to you. Where is it? All depends new upon that. 
Where is it ?” 

“JT donot know! Inever sawit! If the parson gay 
one, probably Frank took charge of it!” 

Again a pause fell between them, and the uoises of the 
wind and waters arose in gloomy concert. A¥* last Georgia 
spoke— 

“‘ Miserable girl! And so you have no procf whatever of 
this asserted marriage ?” 

“None! none! But oh, what does that matter, after all 2 
God knows that we loved, and were married, a He knows 
that we will soon be reunited!” 

“ Wretched girl! who will credit the story ?” 

“No one in the world, perhaps! But, ah! what odds? 
Could the proving of my marriage bring Aim back to life, or 
give my father happiness ?” 

“Most wretched girl! You seem quite lost to the shame 
you have brought upon yourself! the dishonor you have 
brought upon your family !” 

“ Ah, goon! You cannot say anything to me so bitter ag 
w~ heart is saying all the time!” 


CONFESSION. 233 


“ Your father! Your old, gray-haired father! to bring 
him to shame in his old age! Can he survive the knowledge 
of your fall ?” 

“T know he cannot! I know it! Oh, oh!” 

“Carolyn, too! To destroy all her prospects in life. 
Who will ever wed the sister of a supposed—” 

“¢ Ah, spare me that! Why did you pluck me back! the 
river would have covered all!” 

‘* Because I did not know or dream your folly! Zulcime, 
your father, who could bear your death, could never survive 
your disgrace !” 

“ Oh, God, I feel it!” 

he Zuleime——you must die!” 

A pause, when but for the roar of the torrent, and the 
howl of the wind, their very hearts might have been heard 
rlowly beating. 

“ Zuleime, you must not live to bring shame upon us! 
You must die !”* 

*“*Ah! Why did you hinder me when it would not have 
been a crime ?” 

«< What mean you 2?” 

“YT was mad then! I knew not what I did! God would 
not have charged me with my death! Iam sane now !—sane, 
though most wretched !”’ 

“ Zuleime, you must die!—not in reality, but in appear- 
ance. It must be believed that you are dead—-dead by your 
own act, as you intended. And I will provide for your 
escape and your future support. 

“ Alas! lady, what is it you advise me to do? Deceive 
my poor father, so cruelly, and never, never undeceive him 
again? And never, never see him again ?” 

«Lost girl! if I had not saved you an hour ago, would 
you have been aiive to ask the question ?” 

“Ah, no’ But, oh, my father! Who will comfort 
him 2” 

‘Who would have comforted him had you effected your 
purpose this hour? What would comfort him for your degra- 
dation? Foolish girl, that will console him for your supposed 
death, which never could zonsole him for your fall—time. 
Besides, if you are supposed to be dead, it will not only save | 
as all from shame, but your father will be your heir, and 


234 CONFESSION. 


ean appropriate that thirty thousand dollars to the payment 
of his debts. Zuleime, it seems to me you owe us all this 
sacrifice.” 

«JT am very weak and miserable. I—lI scarcely know 
right from wrong! Do what you please with me, only con- 
sole my father!” 

«And at any rate, girl, this plan is far better than the selfs 
destruction you meditated awhile ago. By this plan you will 
be able to save your child.” 

“ Ah! to what end? To be as miserable as its mother ?” 

“ Zuleime! time presses. ‘To-night you must journey to 
L , and take the stage thence to Richmond. I have 
a negro here on whose secrecy I can depend; he shall take 
two horses from the stable and convey you to L in 
time to meet the Richmond stage. I will give you a letter 
that you must deliver to its address as sodn as you reach the 
city. Get up now and come with me,” said Georgia, taking 
her hand to assist her in rising. 

The unhappy girl mechanically yielded herself to the 
guidance of “ the dark ladie,” and they ascended the glen. 

Retracing their steps through forest, field, orchard, vine- 
yard and garden, they reached the house, and entered by the 
back door. The hall was deserted ; the family being at that 
hour gathered around their parlor fire, and the servants being 
at supper. 

“ Zuleime, go quietly up into your chamber and get ready, 
while I go down and find the man I spoke of,” said Georgia, 

Zuleime mechanically obeyed The next hour, 
while her father and sister and friends were enjoying their 
happy evening reunion in the warm, bright parlor, the 
wretched Zuleine, through the dark night, and the howling 
wind, commenced her journcy. Of what followed the dis- 
covery of her loss, you are already possessed. 














4 DOMESTIC SCENE, 284 


CHAPTHR XX. 
A DOMESTIC SCENE 


A light, commodious caamber, 
Looking ont to the hills, where the shine 
Of the great sun may enter.—Mary HowI1rTt. 


NEARLY twelve months have passed since the death of Mr. 
Nifton. It is October, the most glorious month in the year, 
when the gorgeous beauty of nature more than satisfies— 
when it enraptures the soul. 

I shall introduce you into a chamber, whose three large 
windows look out upon the scene of glorious magnificence, 
only to be found when mountains, vales and forests wear 
their gorgeous autumn livery. It is a very large apartment, 
so long and lofty, that the great four-post bedstead, standing 
with its head against the upper end, is not in the way. At 
the lower end of the room, there is an old-fashined fire-place, 
where an oak fire is burning. The floor is covered with an 
ingrain carpet, of warm, rich hues. The bedstead, lounge 
and cushioned chairs are clothed with dark, bright chintz. 
The windows are curtained with orange-colored damask, 
which give a mellow, autumnal tone to the atmosphere of the 
room. The curtains are festooned back, to admit the sun- 
shine, and the glorious view without. 

The lounge is drawn up to the left of the fire-place, and 
Carolyn Clifton, i in deep mourning, reclines upon it. She is 
very much changed since we saw her last. There is scarcely 
a trace of her disease left—only a few pits scattered thinly 
over the lower part of the chin and throat. But she is very, 
very fragile, and her thin, white face is almost spectral, in 


225 A ‘DOMESTIC SUENE. 


contrast with her black dress. Her fair hair has grown ont 
richer, sunnier in hue than before. It is just long enough te 
turn, in natural, smooth ringlets, that reach to her throat. 
And she wears it so. And those bright curls soften and 
shade the pearly whiteness of her cheek. The expression of 
her countenance has changed also. It wears a subdued, 
almost patient air of suffering. She is beautiful, although 
now that the roundness and bloom of her cheek are gone, 
she does not think so. She is beautiful, as she lies there 
contemplating, with remcerseful tenderness, a miniature that 
she has drawn from her bosom. | 

In the cushion chair, on the right of the fire-place, sits 
Catherine Kavanagh. She has also changed within the year. 
Her form is fuller, rounder, more womanly. Her grave, 
almost stern features, have softened into gentleness. Her 
voice is softer and deeper. Its tones indeed are very beauti- 
ful, and modulated with every shade of feeling. She wears 
her hair in the same old style, parted over the forehead, rip- 
pling down in dark, bright wavelets around her cheeks, and 
earried behind, and woven with the back hair into a large 
plait, and then rolled round and round into a succession of 
rings—a rich, dark, burnished mass of hair— 


“Golden where the sunlight played, 
But where the tendrils sought the shade, 
Dark, but very beautiful.” 


tier dress of dark brown stuff, with the little white: throat- 
ruffle, and the black silk apron, is not very becoming to her. 
But she thinks too little of her personal appearance, to care 
for any quality in her clothing beyond neatness and comfort. 
She is knitting very leisurely, stopping occasionally to mea- 
sure the stocking she is engaged upon with the finished one 
which lies upon her lap. Kate is silent and thoughtful. All 
her life, up to this date, has been passed in the ministry to 
sorrow—yes, to all sorts of sorrow—to the suffering arising 
from vice—to the despair caused by evil passions—to com- 
mon illness—to pestilence forsaken of all but her—to death! 
Yes! But little turned of sixteen years of age, and to al] 
these forms of human misery had she been—not a minister 

jag angel, but a ministering child and woman—that ministry 
of sorrow had filled up al her years, from early childhood, 
to this hour. Now her days were passed in soothing and 
ekeering the solitude and depression of her invalid com 


A DOMESTIC SCENE. 237 


panion. And Kate was grave and thoughtful, because sha 
was tempted to think that life was made up of nothing else 
but trouble. Her hope in happiness beyond her experience 
was faint. Her faith was dim. Andnowonder. Itseemed 
time she saw some one else’s happiness, if not her own. It 
was hard to pour the words of faith, hope and cheerfulness 
tmto the ear of another, when the fountain in her own heart 
was failing. It was only a temporary darkening and failing 
of the spirit. A silent, earnest prayer, and all was clear 
and strong again. The room was provocative of thought, if 
not of pensiveness. It was so still and warm and mellow, 
between the fire and the golden sunshine coming softened 
through the curtains. And both girls were silent, while 
Kate leisurely plied her knitting-needles, and Carolyn con- 
templated the miniature. At last Miss Clifton spoke— 

‘¢ Catherine, look upon that face. Study it. Should you 
believe, now, that the owner of that beautiful face could be 
unrelenting, unforgiving ?”” And she passed the miniature 
to her companion. Kate received it—glanced at it. It was 
a faithful likeness of Archer Clifton. And those features, 
so long unseen, and now suddenly revealed, thrilled with such 
electric power to the heart of the girl, that after the first 
recognizing glance, she instantly returned it. And though 
her heart had paused in its pulsations, and now threbbed 
thick and fast, she answered, calmly— 

‘¢ He is not unrelenting or unforgiving, Miss Clifton.” 

“Oh! he is! heis! It has been fifteen months since we 
parted in anger, and no word or sign from him yet. Oh! 
Kate, what do you think of it ?” 

‘<1 think he truly loves you, Miss Carolyn.” 

“ Oh! he did—he did, but I scorned and insulted him, and 
it is past, past !” 

«‘ There is no past tense to real love, lady.” 

“¢ Ah, Catherine, you speak of what you have had no exe 
perience in. My scorn killed his love.” 

“ Real love is immortal, lady, it cannot be killed.” 

« Ah, child, you speak without knowledge.” 

«“ Without experimental knowledge, Miss Clifton. Andall 
vhe highest truths we have are obtained without experimen- 
tal knowledge. ‘I know that true affection is undying, by the 
same light that without the Bible shows me that God exista 
—that He made all souls, and that all souls are immortal. 
It isone of the ‘self-evident’ truths. Ah, Miss Clifton, true 

14 


238 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 


affectivn car, no more be killed by scorn, than an angel tould 

be overcome by a demon, than Heaven could be conquered by » 
hell. In the contest between true affection and scorn, it is 

affection must. conquer—scorn must yield. It must be so, 
lady. The heavens are pledged to it. The sovereignty cf 

the right is involved in it. And when, in such a contest, af 

fection fails, it is because it never was true. No, lady, true 
affection is never conquered. It is scorn that is-conquered. 
It is scorn that has yielded now. You do not scorn him now, 
lady.” 

“© No—I would I could!” 

‘‘ Then, ia the death of your own scorn see the immortal- 
ity of his love. He will come back to you. He will come 
back the first free moment that he has.” 

‘‘Ah, Catherine! In all this fifteen months he has not 
written to me.” 

“ You do not know that, Miss Carolyn. J believe that he 
has written to you, and that the letter has been lost. You 
know how irregular and uncertain the mail is from that 
distant frontier.” 

“Catherine! I have been thinking of writing to him 
What is your opinion? What would you advise me te 
do?’ | 

‘« Not for the world, lady! For, trust me, for every step 
of advance a woman makes, a man of high honor and fine 
sensibilities retreats.” 

Miss Clifton’s brow flushed, and she made a gesture of im- 
patience, as she exclaimed— 

“Then why, why knowing that, does he not write ?” 

«< Because, perhaps, his first letters miscarried, and he 
stopped under the supposition that you would not answer him. 
And then, lady, under all these circumstances, the stiff pen 
and the cold paper cannot convey all the burning words he 
would have to pour out at your feet. He will come!” 

“©¢He will come.? Ah! in that very phrase is a knell 
deeper than all the rest! He will come! And what a 
spectre he will see in me! He cannot continue to love ine! 
Impossible! Impossible! He can never love such a faded 
and scarred ruin as I am.” 

«¢ Dear Miss Clifton, I have told you so often that you ara 
not aruin! Your face is very lovely, indeed it is! Fair and 
delicate and pensive, and far more attractive to all good 
hearts than ever it was in its high bloom.” 


A DOMESTIC SCENE. Fs 239 


“Ah, but faded—faded—faded!” mournfully replied 
Carolyn. 

“¢ Aud then, dear lady, true affection is of the soul. I 
tas been said that love is blind. It is not so. Love has 
Nivine eyes, ind creates the beauty that it looks upon. He 
will love you the more for the calamity and sorrows that have 
fallen upon you. He wiil see a deeper beauty in your pen- 
sive face, and his love will make it real.” " 

“Oh! impossible, I tell you! Impossible! The sight of 
me would shock him. He would turn away.” 

“ Lady, do you love your cousin?” 

“© Love him? . Ah, God!” 

“ Dear lady, if he had returned from the frontier with the 
loss of an arm, a leg, or an eye—-or with the hideous scar of 
a sword cut across cheek and brow, could you have turned 
from him revolted ?” 

“Oh, no, no.no! Oh! Heaven, no! I should have 
done all I could to convince him that he was_ beautiful 
to me still—that I loved him the deeper for his misfor- 
tunes !” 

«Then, dear lady, judge his noble heart by your own.’ 

“ Ah, but you said yourself, just now, when ee me 
not to write, that men feel so differently from women - p39 

“ Yes, but not in tenderness—not in constancy !” 

“There is the boy coming from the post office, Catherine ! 
It is strange—it is strange—but though I have been disap- 
pointed a hundred times, I still hope, and the coming of every 
mail makes my heart pause! Go, dear Catherine, and see 
what there is.” 

Kate rolled up her knitting, and dropped it into a littl 
straw basket, and went below. 

“ Only one letter, an’ the Pos’-Master say how it war for 
Miss Carolyn,” said the boy below stairs. 

A letter for her at last! Carolyn’s heart stopped almost 
to death, until Kate ran back up the stairs, entered the room, 
and placed the letter in her hands. 

‘Tt is from Richmond,” she said, in a Se tone, 
as she opened it. 

“From my Aunt Cabell,” she added, and »egan ‘to read 
it while Kate resumed her ‘knitting. 

“T hope your friends are all well,” said Catherine. 

“¢ Yes—” replied Miss Clifton ; and then a smile of amuse- 
men‘ flitted over her face—and still running her eye down 


940 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 


the letter, she continued—‘* My Aunt Cabell writes me that 
my excellent step-dame, Mrs. Georgia Clifton, is now the 
reigning belle of Richmond—the most beautiful woman, the 
most charming musician, the most fascinating waltzer, and 
the most elegant equestrain in the city! She passes for a 
wealthy (!) young widow—and her credit is unlimited, and 
her debts and her extravagance, of course, unbounded. She 
occupies a whole suit of rooms in the most expensive hotel in 
the city, and entertains around her, both day and night, a 
host of adoring worshipers. She has cut her father—worthy 
man—-dead! She is going to bring down a party of ladies 
and gentlemen to spend Christmas at her country-seat, (!) 
White Cliffs. Now what do you think of that, Catherine ? 
Pray Heaven she may marry soon, and not wear our name 
“sng enough to scandalize it! Mrs. Cabell goes on to say, 
that Mrs. Georgia cannot Jong play that game—that Archer 
Clifton must soon return, and take possession of his property, 
when it will be arrested. Alas! she does not know that 
Captain Clifton is as much under the dominion of that dan- 
gerous woman as it is possible to be. He will probably be 
proud to leave Mrs. Clifton in possession here as long as she 
finds it convenient or agreeable to stay. Now, what do you 
think of all this, Catherine ?” 

‘‘ Dear lady, I know that you feel very unpleasantly, that 
all those gay city strangers should be coming down here at 
Christmas, to turn the quiet house into a hall of orgies 
But Ido not see how you can prevent it. You can elude it, 
though! You can go to Hardbargain, you know, and remain 
until Mrs. Georgia and her guests have departed again. I 
would do that.” 

““ No, dear Catherine, there will be no necessity for that, 
either' My Aunt Cabell has anticipated my embarrassment, 
and proposed a plan. My aunt and all her family are com- 
ing down here to spend the months of October and Novem- 
ber, while their city mansion is undergoing repairs-—paint- 
ing, papering, and so on. And she proposes that I shali 
return with her at the first of December, and pass the Win- 
ter in Richmond.” 

‘* And will you go ?” 

“T do not know. But, Kate, dear, you have coniforted 
ine so much, and aunt’s account of Mrs. Georgia’s city airs 
aas diverted me so much, that I think I have spirits for a 
ride Go order the horses, and tell Dandy to be ready ta 


A DOMESTIC SCENE. O41 


attend us. We will go up to Hardbargain and take tea with 
Aunt Clifton, and amuse ber with this letter!” 


Mrs. Cabell and her daughters, attended by Major Cabell, 
arrived in due time, and were received with great pleasure 
by their orphaned relative. And Catherine, now that she 
was no longer necessary to the cheerfulness of Miss Clifton, 
took leave and returned to her brother’s cot. Life in the 
mansion, and life in the hut, like day and night, about equally 
divided the girl’s experience—a stran ge lot, to be ever ue 
nating between luxury and refinement, and poverty and 
coarseness. And though it was a wonderfully strengthening 
discipline, Kate found the contrast so painful as to wish 
that life would change—in some way. 

A month passed away—during which she heard nothing 
whatever from White Cliffs. She was therefore in total 
ignorance of what was going on there, until one cold morn- 
ing that had succeeded a snow-stormy night, while she was 
shoveling away the snow in front of the cottage door, Dandy 
rode up and delivered her a note from Miss Clifton. The 
note ran thus: 


“ DraR CATHERINE,— 

“Tam going to leave for Richmond with Aunt Clifton to- 
morrow morning. Come over, dear girl, and let me take 
leave of you before I start. Come, my good, wise Catherine, 
for I want to consult you about a certain matter. 


“Your friend CAROLYN.” 


Kate saddled her pony and set out, attended by Dandy. 
As soon as she arrived at White Cliffs, she was invited im- 
mediately up into Miss Clifton’s room. She found the young 
lady surrounded with trunks and bandboxes, and busy with 
her maids, packing. Carolyn dismissed her attendants, beg- 
ged Kate to be seated, and sat down by her. After a few 
mutual inquiries about health and so on, and a little intro- 
ductory conversation, and some considerable hesitatioa, M’ss 
Clifton said— 

‘¢ Catherine! I think—I hope that I have succeeded at 
last in emancipating myself from the degrading slavery of 
that old love spell' At last the dread sense of bereavement 
and deselation is deadened. . + «. « « ¢ If 1 were 


\% 


942 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 


to see him again, however, I do not know how it might 
be. . . . . Perhaps, though, I shall nover see him 
again. . . . . Kate! I have had a proposal for mar- 
riage. . . « My cousin Major Cabell’) (300 ge 
was at least generous in him, all things considered . . . 
Family feeling, I suppose. . . . . . Kate, I think of 
accepting him! . . . . . We owe something to ow 
position in society. . . . . + My Aunt Cabell has been 
talking to me about it for a month past.” 

Miss Clifton made this communication in a hesitating, 
disjointed manner ; while Catherine looked and listened in 
grief and astonishment, feeling regret amounting almost to 
remorse, that she liad left her friend, enfeebled in mind and 
body, so long under the influence of a strong-willed 
thoroughly worldly-minded woman. And she understood 
the instinet that had impelled the wavering girl to send for 
her to steady her. And then athwart these, her purest emo- 
tions, swept a dark, burning impulse, like a breath of hell. 
It was the whisper of the devil, and it said to her,—“Agree 
with her—agree with her! Let her marry anotber if she 
wishes, and thus remove the greatest impediment that sepa- 
rates you from the love, the hope of Archer Clifton.” 
Catherine stood for a moment horrified by the darkness of 
the temptation. But then summoning the whole strength 
of her soul, she inwardly exclaimed, ‘“‘ Get thee behind me, 
Satan!” And the devil fled from her. 

“You do not answer me, Catherine. My dear girl, I have 
so much confidence in your rectitude of mind! Advise 
me!” 

«Dear Miss Clifton, never, as you value your whole life’s 
peace and rectitude—never, for any purpose whatever—un 
der any temptation whatever—consent to marry a man you 
do not love; never, as you hope for earthly content— as you 
trust in God—never put an insurmountable object between 
yourself and one you love! How criminal to become a wife, 
while you love another living maa! How terrible to find 
gut, when it is too Jate, that he loves you still! Perhaps 
froim year to year to long for the—! Lady, I have no words 
strong enough to express to you all that I feel and fear on 
this subject! Grave faults sometimes follow little errors! 
I would fain gain your promise not to entertain any gentle- 
man’s suit until you have met again with Captam Clifton 
You cannot have long to wait. He must return to settle up 


A DOMESTIC SCENE. 943 


this estate. And legal business, if nothing else, must bring 
you together !” 

“Alas! alas! no! the affairs of this property will be set- 
tled by his attorney. Kate, I am very miserable!” 

“Dear lady, I know it! Do not, when tempted by hope- 
lessness, do that which you may regret all your life! That 
which may shut out the possibility of happiness forever’ I 
wish I could go to Richmond with you.’ 

‘¢Ch, I wish you could! I think that you could save me 
from danger, Kate.” 

“] think you want an honest friend near you, Miss Clif- 
ton! But, one thing you can do—you can resolve not to 
form any matrimonial engagement until you have again met 
with Captain Clifton. And you can bind your resolution by 
a promise. Promise me, dear lady, by the interest [ take in 
you, to hold yourself free from entanglements, until you see 
your cousin !” 

“iXate !—yes, I solemnly promise you, by all I hold sa- 
ered, that I will do as you advise in this matter! And, 
Kate, enfeebled as I am, or may become, in mind or body, I 

eannot break my pledged word! Good girl! You have 

saved me again! Oh, Kate! Kate! do you think J don’t 
know the full extent of your disinterestedness? Oh, Kate! 
noble girl! God reward you !” 

Catherine began to tremble so violently, that Miss Clirton 
threw her arms around her, and pressed her to her bosom, 
whispering, 

‘Never fear, dear girl! sweet girl! I will not breathe 
another word! I would as soon sacrilegiously snatch the 
veil from the sanctuary, as breathe another word about it!’ 





When Catherine reached home in the afternoon, she found 
a message waiting her, from Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain. 
She went up immediately to the farm-house, and found that 
lady looking very happy. 

«“< Matherine, my dear, sitdown. I have good news. [have 
just received a letter from Archer. | He will be in Richmond 
in four days from this! But his duties are such that he will 
not b: able to leave Richmond for some weeks. He begs 
me tv meet him there! He has been promoted, Kate! He: 
is now Major Clifton, and has been appointed aid-de-camp te 
the Governor !” 


944 A DOMESTIC SCENR. 


“I am rejoiced to hear it, madam,” replied Kate, calmly, 
though her heart stood still with the suddenness of this 
news. ‘You will send over and inform Miss Clifton, will 
you not, madam ?”” 

“No, I think not, Catherine. Why excite and disturb 
her on the eve of a journey? Besides, Catherine, I have 
many misgivings! ‘This long persistence in silence—his 
never mentioning her name in any of his few letters to me‘ 
his never replying to the letter I wrete upon the subject !— 
all this is foreboding! I must not meddle farther in this 
affair until I have seen my son, and can judge his state of 
mind in regard to it! . . . . ... But, Catherine, 
my dear, I sent for you for this: I am going to Richmond 
on Tuesday, for the purpose of spending some weeks near my 
son. I need a female companion, and I have your grandfa 
ther’s and your brother’s consent for you to accompany me ; 
that is, if you are willing. Will you go with me, Kate?” 

‘“‘T shall be very glad to do so, indeed, Mrs. Clifton !” said 
the young girl. 

“Then return home at once, Kate, and prepare for the 
journey. You will have a great deal to do, to make things 
comfortable for your grandfather and brother during your 
absence, and to get yourself ready for your city visit. 


IN THE CITY. 245 


CHAPTER XXI. 


IN THE CITY. 


In a proud city and rich— 
A city fair and old, 
Filled with the world’s most costl: things, 
Of precious stones and gold; 
Of ike fine wool, and spiceries, 
And all that’s bought and sold.—Mary Howitt. 


Qn Lor arrival at Richmond, Mrs. Clifton engaged for her- 
self and Catherine two rooms—a chamber with two beds, 
and a neat adjoining parlor—in a quiet, retired boarding- 
house. 

Miss Clifton was the guest of Mrs. Cabell, in the most 
fashionable quarter of the city. Captain Clifton had not yet 
arrived, but was daily expected. Richmond was in the com- 
mencement of the fashionable season, and was already quite 
full of gay company. Every evening witnessed some one or 
two grand balls, or great private parties. The theatres and 
the concert rooms were in full operation. But no faint echo 
of all these various forms of revelry came to the sequestered 
neighborhood that Mrs. Clifton had. chosen for her retreat. 
No news of the fashionable world reached her, except con- 
stant bulletins of Mrs. Georgia Clifton’s progress through 
society. She was one of those city celebritics whose sayings 
and doings are the exciting topic of all classes. Where she 
went, and what she wore, and when she rode out. Whom 
she cut directly, whom she smiled upon, whom she slighted, 
and whom she received, were the most interesting subjects 
of discussion. The Belle of the Rappahannock, the Dark 
Ladye, the Gipsy Beauty, were some of the many names she 
had won. All these matters were freely and lightly com- 
mented upon in Mrs. Clifton’s presence, by gentlemen board- 
ers, who knew nothing whatever of that lady’s connexion 
with the reigning toast of Richmond. Mrs. Clifton rested 
two days before calling upon Mrs. Cabell and her family 
Misa (‘lifton expressed almost as much surprise as pleasure 


246 IN THE CITY. 


at the sight of her aunt, but forebore to question her motive 
in coming so suddenly to the city. Perhaps Carolyn had 
beard a rumor of Major Clifton’s preferment and expected 
arrival, and for that reason was silent. Mrs. Clifton never 
nanied the subject during her informal call. At taking leave 
she Icft her address, and informed her niece that Kate 
Kavanagh was in town with her. Carolyn expressed niuch 
pleasure at hearing this, and promised to call very soon. 
The very next day Mrs. Cabell came in her carriage, and in- 
vited and urged Mrs. Clifton and her protégé to return with 
her, and make her house their home during their sojourn in 
Richmond. After some hesitation and reflection, Mrs. Clif- 
ton, accepted the invitation, and promised to go over the next 
day. The next morning, therefore, Mrs. Cabell sent her 
carriage to convey Mrs. “Clifton and Catherine. They were 
received by Mrs. Cabell with great politeness and empresse- 
ment, and conducted by that lady herself into two large and 
luxuriously furnished chambers, conneeted with each other, 
where they found a neat, pretty mulatto girl, ready to wait 
upon them—for Mrs. Cabell, with all ber hard wordliness, 
was truly kind and hospitable. 

The evening of the succeeding day was the appointed time 
for the Governor’s first reception. Mrs. Cabell and her 
family were going, of course. And Mrs. Clifton resolved te 
go—not for her own sake, but for that of Catherine, whom 
she had determined should see all that was to be seen during 
her stay in the metropolis. A somewhat haughty surprise 
elevated the handsome black eyebrows of Mrs. Cabell, when 
she found that Mrs. Clifton intended to take her demoiselle 
du compagnie, but she was far too well bred to express it in 
any other manner. And as for Mrs. Clifton, she always did 
whatever she thought proper to do, in the coolest, calmest, 
most matter-of-course manner, without the slightest regard 
to other people’s weaknesses and follies. You know, besides, 
that she was a thorough republican. And Mrs. Cabell re- 
smembered that the public reception at the gubernatorial 
mansion was a sort of omnitum gatherum, where all who be- 
haved themselves might come—from the oldest Major-Gene- 
ral of the army to the shoemaker who made his boots. And 
again, no one in Richmond knew who the girl really was. 
All these things haa Mrs. Cabell to recall to mind before she 
could reconcile herself to the idea of Kate’s being of the 
party 


IN THE CITY. QAT 


When the night and the hour arrived, several gentlemen, 
beaux of the Misses Cabell, came to escort the ladies. Major 
Cabell attended his cousin Carolyn and one of his sisters. 
Judge Cabell took charge of his wife and eldest daughter. 
Mrs. Clifton had hoped that her son would have reached the 
city in time to have escorted herself and Catherine. When 
they were all assembled in the parlor, Major Cabell brought 
a gentleman up to Mrs. Clifton, whom he presented as Colo- 
nel Conyers, of the army, leaving to Mrs. Clifton the respon- 
sibility of presenting the aristocrat to the plebelan Kate. Mrs. 
Clifton did it at once, in the most natural way in the world. 
And the galiant Colonel, after a few compliments, hoped to 
have the honor of waiting upon Mrs. Clifton and her * lovely 
charge’ to the Mansion House. Mrs. Clifton gratefully 
accepted his services—and soon after, they entered the car- 
riage, and were driven off. This party reached their desti- 
nation a full half hour before Mrs. Cabell and family, and 
other ultra fashionables, who fancied that it was vulgar to go 
early, and imagined that their ton depended upon late hours 
and other observances. Mrs. Clifton was very plainly dressed, 
in a black satin with a lace scarf—Catherine very simply, in 
a white crape, with a scarlet geranium twined in her black 
hair. A moment in the cloak-room sufficed to re-arrange 
their simple toilet. They were then conducted into the 
saloon. This apartment was fitted up in a somewhat differ- 
ent style to those of the present day. It was illuminated by 
three large hanging chandeliers, holding innumerable wax 
candles; and warmed by two enormous coal fires, one at 
each extremity. It was already well filled with a miscella- 
neous company. After their presentation to the Governor, 
Colonel Conyers inquired whether they chose to join the 
promenade or to take seats. Mrs. Clifton preferred the lat- 
ter, and their polite escort conducted them to a side sofa, 
from which they could note the entrance of fresh guests, and 
watch the great circle of promenaders going round and round 
in one long elliptic, three or four persons deep, in the most 
stupid, treadmill monotony conceivable. Very much inter- 
ested and amused was our simple country girl, in taking ob 
servations of the various characters passing in review before 
them. Here would be a dowager of sixty, in rouge, ring- 
lets, bare arms and a gossamer dress; here a girl of seven-- 
teen, in a black, stiff brocade and heavy head-dress. Tere 
comes a stately, broad-cly-sted, senatoriai-looking man—hbe 





2413 IN TIE CITY. 


looks the incumbent of some high, official place—he zs the 
master: t>ilor, of street. Here comes a red-headed, 
red-faced, sharp-featured little man, very quick and impa- 
tient in his motions, and very high in his voice—he looks 
like an auctioneer or a constable—he is the great General 
, of the United States Army. Here isa small, dowdy 
woman, all fuss and flowers, like a barn-house actress—she 
is the wife of the late Governor This is a queenly 
woman! tall, stately, dignified, with a fine, royal counte- 
nance. Pooh! Don’t ask who she is—she is the “ leading 
lady ” at the city theatre—plays in all the heavy tragedies, 
but is not even a star. There, apart, watching and reflect- 
ing upon the scene, stands a grave-looking individual, in a 
closely-fitting black suit, and closely-cropped black hair, and 
set, sallow, saturnine face, looking like an undertaker at a 
funeral—doubtless some famous preacher—though so miser- 
able a messenger of the glad tidings cannot be imagined 
Preacher, indeed! Why, he isH —, the low comedian, 
and he wears his hair cropped that way by reason of the 
many different sorts of wigs he has to wear in his different 
impersonations. To-night, he happens to be off the boards, 
and enjoys the recreation of sadness and gravity. Ah! here 
is a dcbonnair gentleman! all life! a laugh and jest, or a 
smile and a bow for every one. Is he a French dancing- 
master? No—he is the Rev. Mr. , the most popular 
preacher of the day. Yet these were not all. There was a 
small proportion of really well-dressed and dignified women. 
and stately, honorable men. 

“‘How do you like the scene, Catherine?’ asked Mrs 
Clifton. 

Kate laughed—then replied— 

‘J am somewhat disappointed, but very much more di- 
verted! It seems to me so strange that people should look, 
dress and behave so very inappropriately! and that they 
could possibly be so very ill-dressed and dowdy at such a 
great expense. I expected something very recherché and 
elegant in the saloon of the Governor’s mansion. But * mot- 
ley is the only wear!’ ” 

The officer laughed, gayly, and then observed— 

“Why? Why did you look for something, or rather, for 
everything recherché and elegant in this crowd? Because 
you see in the newspaper reports of such gatherings, such 
phrases as ‘the beautiful Mis A Y—by-the-way, there 




















IN THE CITY. 249 


slic is—-+the young iady with the red hair, milk-white com- 
plexion and little eyes; or ‘the elegant Mrs. B———— ”’ ‘ the 
graceful Mrs. C———_? ete., etc., etc., with revised and 
improved accounts of their costume, appearance, manners, 
etc.? Miss Kavanagh, when you have stayed in the city 
longer, you will know that when a newspaper reporter and 
letter writer speaks of that dowdy, but wealthy little woman, 
in the flimsy, scarlet dress, as ‘the beautiful, elegant, and 
accomplished Mrs. G———-,’ and tells of ‘the immense 
(imaginary) sensation’ she made—Ae, the reporter, is morally 
certain of an invitation to her private parties.” 

Kate did not like his sarcastic tone, but before she could 
make any sort of reply, her attention was called to a rising 
excitement in the room. Every gentleman, from the fid- 
getty little Major General, down to the grave and dignified 
low comedian ; and every lady, from the ex-Governor’s fussy 
widow, to the stately and self-possessed stock actress, were 
on the gui vive. Kate, while listening and watching for the 
cause of the excitement, caught a few phrases that helped to 
enlighten her—they were of this sort :—‘* A wonder! a perfect 
wonder! A miracle of dark beauty.” ‘The wealthiest woman 
in the state, but that is nothing to her marvelous beauty.” 
s Did you see her as ‘Egypt, at the fancy ball?” ‘ Her 
portrait, in oil, by , stands in Stationers’ Hall. It has 
attracted crowds.” ‘ No—I have seen the engraving from 
it in ‘ Beauty’s Annual’ for this year. But I lave also seen 
it on the tops of cigar boxes—too bad!” ‘ Hush! here she 
comes !” 

Catherine turned her eyes in the direction towards which 
all others were gazing. It was Georgia—dark, bright, and 
more beautiful and bewitching than ever. Her dress was of 
lustrous black crape-de-lise, sprinkled over with gold spangles, 
that gleamed in and out through the dark, transparent dra- 
pery, suggesting clear, starlight night. A crowd entered 
with the star-bright Ciree—a crowd attended her during all 
her progress through the room. 

We must leave Georgia to her alluring wiles, and Cathe- 
rine to her observations, and seek Mrs. Cabell and her party. 
They are in the dressing-room, and about to nid it. Only 
Mrs. Cabell turns again and again to survey her form in the 
mirror, and re-adjust the flow of her purple satin dress, or the 
wave of her white ostrich plumes. When all is done, she 
turns for the last time to Carolyn, to rebuke her for not add- 





250 IN THE OITY. 


ing a singie ornament to her mourning dress of black velvet, 
which is relieved only by the falls of fine Brussels lace on 
the neck and arms, and the sunny ringlets falling all around 
her head as low as the throat. Carolyn looks very fragile, 
but interesting and lovely, though she does not know it 

Major Cabell gave his right arm to his mother, and his left 
to his cousin, and so, as it was now the acme of the fashion- 
able hour, they entered the saloon, and made their slow pro- 
gress up to the upper end, where the Governor and staff 
stood, to receive all comers—Mrs. Cabell bowing and smiling 
to such acquaintances as she chose to recognize in passing, 
until at length they stopped. A feeling of false shame, a 
morbid notion that all eyes were upon her, and scrutinized 
the few pits hidden under the golden curls on her temples, 
had caused Carolyn to cast her eyes down, and keep them 
down, during the whole progress through the room—and 
though her acute ears heard such murmurs as these—-** How 
fair she is,” ‘ But how fragile, as if a zephyr would blow her 
away ”’—she never fancied they were breathed of her, and. 
never surmised the admiration she elicited. ‘‘ Governor 
T , Miss Clifton, of Clifton,” were the words that ad 

monished Carolyn she was standing before the great man, 
and must look up and curtsy. She curtsied before she 
looked up, and when she raised her eyes, she saw only Archer 
Clifton before her, who bowed when he met her glance! The 
Governor and many others were there, but how could she see 
any one but Archer Clifton! But, oh! the perversity of 
human nature! As soon as she met his eyes, all the pride 
and scorn of her proudest, most scornful days, returned upon 
her with a vengeance—all the more fiercely, ferociously, that 
she believed herself a fright, and found Archer Clifton hand- 
somer, more dignified, higher in favor with God and man than 
ever! Major Cabell was about to pass on instantly with his 
ladies, to give place to the next arrivals. Returning Archer 
Clifton’s bow with a haughty bend, she threw up her head 
und swept on with the most superb air of arrogance imagina- 
Sle. They joined the promenaders—Carolyn all the more 
unhappy for her show of hauteur—the heart beneath that 
erected head and expanded chest almost breaking with cha- 
grin. Captain, now Major Clifton, stood at the right hand 
ot the Governor, with his eyes roving calmly over the mis- 
vellaneous assembly, until they chanced to rest upon the 
staiely form of his wother when they lighted up with sure 





IN THE CITY. ae | 


prise and pleasure, and excusing himself from his official 
attendance, he bowed and withdrew, to hasten to the distant 
sofa, where she sat alone. Catherine, on the arm of Uolonel 
Sonyers, was lost in the slowly revolving crowd of promena- 
lers. He reached Mrs. Clifton’s side, and— 

“My dearest mother!” 

‘« My dear Archer!” were the greetings exchanged ke- 
eween them with the clasped hands. 

‘¢ How delighted I am to see you, yet how tantalizing to 
meet you in this public assembly, after so long an absence!” 

«¢ When did you reach the city, Archer ?” 

‘Within the last half-hour! Having important dispatches 
tor the Governor, I came at once hither.”’ 

“T did not see you enter.” 

“<I came in by the private entrance, and joined his excel- 
‘ency’s circle directly. But, my dearest mother! I scarcely 
noped you would be in town—how long have you been here ?”? 

* About four days, Archer.” 

Suddenly both became grave and thoughtful—they were 
decupied with the same thoughts—of the calamities that had 
pefallen mutual friends since their last parting. They were 
silent—tbvey did not like to sadden this first meeting by re- 
ferrirg: tv the inournful subject. And before either knew of 
her approach, Mrs. Georgia had glided swiftly and silently 
up to them. Now, Mrs. Georgia had passed and repassed 
Mrs. Cliftun a score of times that evening, without once no- 
ticing her. But now that Archer Clifton sat by his mother’s 
side, the Circe appeared before them, dark, resplendent, 
alluring as ever. She was leaning upon the arm of the 
Hieutenant-Governor. . Archer Clifton sprang up imme- 
diately, and greeted her with surprise and pleasure. Dismiss< 
mg her escort with a charming smile and wave of the hand 
sie sank gracefully, languishingly into the seat by the side 
of Mrs. Clifton, and glided into her own fascinating style of 
eonversation. After a few minutes, Archer Clifton seemed 
quite lost to everything else, in the charm of the syren’s 
society, until a certain, sweet, enticing restlessness on the 
part of the beauty, suggested to him the propriety of inviting 
her to promenade. She arose with a bewildering smile, that 
quite drove his mother out of his head, and slipped her arm 
through his. They joined the promenaders. In the mean- 
time, Kate Kavanagh, on the arm of Colonel Conyers, was 
woving around in the same circle, highly amused in making 


952 ™N THE CITY. 


observations, and scarcely appreciating the sincere admiration 
of her escort, that was apparent to every one else, especially 
to the correspondent of the Fiddle-de-dee, who, in his next 
letter, in giving an account of the reception, made an item of 
the manifest admiration of the gallant and distinguished 
Colonel C , for the beautiful and accomplished Miss 
K————. Catherine at length thought that her kind pa- 
troness might be lonely, and expressed a wish to rejoin her. 
In turning to retrace their steps, they met face to face with 
Archer Clifton and his companion. Major Clifton recognized 
the poor mountain girl in that saloon, with a look of super- 
cilious surprise, and Mrs. Georgia looked calmly through her 
body without seeing her at all. With a slight bow, Major 
Clifton passed on with his companion. And as for Kate, her 
heart had a habit of standing perfectly still in an emergency, 
and now it had stopped so suddenly, and stood still so long, 
that she was on the verge of fainting. 

“You are not well. You are wearied. You have re- 
mained on your feet too long. Let me take you to a seat, 
Miss Kavanagh,” said the Colonel. With a gasp and a 
shiver, Kate recovered and rejoined Mrs. Clifton. And she per- 
mitted herself to fall into no more weakness that night. But 
Kate had unconsciously betrayed her secret to the officer. 
And by the interference of her good angel, this knowledge 
thus obtained, enabled Colonel Conyers to do Kate a service 
of vital importance in after years. 

‘Archer is come,” said Mrs. Clifton, as Catherine took 
her seat. 

“JT know it. I met him,” replied Catherine, and both 
fell mto silence, for at that instant Major Clifton and the 
beautiful Georgia passed them. And from that time, and so 
long as they sat there, again and again in the slow revolving 
of the great circle of promenaders, the pair passed and re- 
passed them—Georgia smiling, cooing, murmuring, in her 
low, alluring music—and Archer Clifton, bending over her 
with his brilliant gray eyes, feeding on her lovely face, 
seeming to sink deeper and deeper into the bathos of her 
charms, while Carolyn turned sick with jealousy, and Cathe- 
rine faint with dread, and the correspondent of the Fiddle- 
de-dee made a note of the distinguished favor with which the 
most beautiful Mrs. C -, the reigning belle of Richmond, 
received the devoirs of her distant relative, the celehrated 
Major G-—-—. Fear nothing, Carolyn, or Catherine, 








IN THE CITY. 253 


Archer Clifton is not in love with his uncle’s widow —taat 
very relationship would repel the idea, if nothing else. But 
he is net indifferent to the honor of monopolizing the reign- 
ing queen of the ton. 

«“ Aunt Cabell,” said Carolyn, “I cannot sit up longer. J] 
must go home.” 

And Mrs. Cabell consented to gratify her wish. In fact 
it was growing late, and the ultra-fashionables, the last to 
come, and the first to leave, were beginning to disappear. 
Mrs. Georgia unwillingly discovered this fact, but she thought 
that at least she could adroitly secure the services of her 
companion as an escort home, and detain him to any hour in 
the little paradise of her own boudoir. She therefore ex- 
pressed herself ennuied, and entreated Major Clifton to con- 
duct her to the cloak-room. He attended her thither. And 
there he met again his Cousin Carolyn. She looked so fair, 
so wan, so fragile, that he could not for a moment take his 
eyes from her. He hastily adjusted the mantle over the 
shoulders of Georgia, handed her her muff and hood, and 
excusing himself for a moment, hurried back to his mother’s 
side. 

‘¢ You have company home, madam, have you not?” 

“Certainly, Archer. I should not be here without 
such a provision—here comes Colonel Conyers now to at- 
tend us.” 

“Good-night, then! I will see you early to-morrow! 
Good-night, Kate!” He was off. 

Mrs. Cabell and Carolyn, leaning on Major Cabell’s arms, 
reached their carriage door. The Major dropped his cousin’s 
arm a moment to assist his mother in, and to settle her in 
her seat. And during that moment Carolyn felt an arm 
passed around her waist, and a voice whisper— 

«¢Carolyn—my beloved cousin! my bride! am I fore 
given ?” 

She burst into tears and dropped her proud head on his 
besom, exclaiming— 

Oh, Archer! am J forgiven ?” 

He placed her in the carriage, and springing in past Major 
Cabell, took the seat by her side, leaving the Major to 
follow as he could, and forgetting the very existence of Mrs. 
Georgia. 

Kate was close to them—she saw and heard it all. Nod- 
ding her head slowly several times, she murmured— 

16 


954 IN THE CITY. 


“Thank God. Thank God! Oh, Merciful Father, Lelp 
ine to say that sincerely. Thank God!” 

Three weeks after this they were married. The ceremony 
was performed in the ancient church of St. John’s on Rich- 
mond Hill—one of the oldest places of worship on the whole 
eontinent. Mrs. Cabell would willingly have made this event 
the occasion of a great deal of ostentatious display ; but the 
recent afflictions in the family, and the fragility of the bride, 
rendered other arrangements necessary. Therefore, imme- 
diately after the ceremony, which came off at an early hour 
of the morning, the newly-married couple, taking advantage 
of the very fine weather, departed for Norfolk, with the in- 
tention of sailing thence to Havana, where, by the advice 
of an eminent physician, for the re-establishment of the bride’s 
health, they purposed to spend the winter. 

Mrs. Georgia Clifton, with all the other members of the 
family connection, had, of course, been present at the mar- 
riage. And no one was so lavish of smiles, tears, caresses, 
and congratulations, as the dark-eyed syren. But when all 
was over, and the bridal pair had departed, refusing the in- 
vitation of Mrs. Cabell to go home and dine with a party of 
friends, she hurried to her lodgings, pushed open the door 
of her luxurious boudoir, fastened it on the inside, and threw 
herself down, rolling over, tearing at the carpet, and gnash- 
ing her teeth in an agony of disappointment, jealousy and 
impotent rage. . 

But not long did the Circe of Richmond yield herself up 
to anguish and despair. Christmas was approaching, when 
she was expected to entertain a select number of her wor- 
shipers at White Cliffs. It was expedient that she should 
go down a few days in advance of the party, to make ready 
for their reception. Therefore, about five days after the 
marriage, she left the city. 

Mrs. Clifton remained a week longer in town, to give 
Catherine an opportunity of attending a course of lectures 
on Moral Philosophy. And their escort every evening was 
Colenel Conyers. 


LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 255 


CHAPTER XXII 


LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 


Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 
The hart ungailed plav, 

For some must watch while some may sleep, 
So runs the world away.—SHAKSPEARE. 


Ir was always Mrs. Clifton’s rule to spend Christmas at 
home —so, she arranged to leave’ Richmond on the twenty- 
shird. It was three o’clock on the dark, cold, winter morn- 
ing, that the stage called for them. Our travelers were 
muffled up to the ears in hoods, cloaks, shawls and furs, and 
when they entered the coach, they seemed to fill up all the 
back. It was so dark that they could see nothing, and the 
stage seemed to be vacant of other passengers than them- 
selves; until Mrs. Clifton, settling her own outer garments, 
spoke, cautioning Catherine to fold her cloak carefully about 
her. ‘Then another voice spoke, from the opposite seat, ex- 
claiming, in « tone of Burp EtG and pleasure— 

$6 Why, i is it possible! Mrs. Clifton and Miss Kavanagh ?” 

“ Yes, Colonel Conyers, and I am as much pleased as sur- 
prised to find you here! How comes it that we are fellow 
travelers?’ said the lady, placing her own im his offered 
hand. . 

¢ And how do you do, Miss Kavanagh ?—really, I am so 
overjoyed to find you here! Why, you must know, niy dear 
Mrs. Clifton, that Ihave been due at White Cliffs as several 
days. I am, in fact, the laggard of a party—but in truth 
I could not tear myself from Richmond, while you and Miss 
Kavanagh remained. But last night, after taking leave of 
you, as I supposed, for some length of time,—under great 
depression of spirits, Miss Kavanagh,—I sent and had a place 
taken in this stage. for L— , which I understand to he 
the nearest stage station to White Cliffs. Why, how little 
did I suspect that we were to travel by the same soach’ 





955 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 


Truly, ‘ life is full of paper walls.’ A word dropped by either 
of us, last nignt, would have revealed the fact to the other ! 
But how delighted I am, Miss Kavanagh! And may I hope, 
Mrs. Chifton, that our journey lies for some distance together?” 

« For the whole distaaice, I am happy to say. The plan- 
tation of White Cliffs and the farm of Hardbargain join. 
Our journey terminates at L— ——.” 

“ Really! Why this is excellent! So, instead of being 
separated, we shall travel all the way together, and then con- 
tinue to be neighbors for some weeks! Miss Kavanagh, I 
am overjoyed.” 

There was not much traveling at that season of the year, 
so our party of three had the coach to themselves, and Colonel 
Conyers devoted himself with great assiduity to the comfort 
of the ladies. 

At the end of the second day, just as the level beams of 
tae setting sun wee gilding all the village windows, the stage 
rolled into L 

There, before the ‘little tavern door, waited Mrs. Clifton’s 
old-fashioned carriage. 

« Did you notify the family of White Cliffs of your ins 
tended arrival here to-day ?”’ asked Mrs. Clifton, of Colonel 
Conyers. 

“No, madam! My journey was resolved upon so sud 
denly—out of ‘ my grief and my impatience’ at the supposed 
loss of your own and Miss Kavanagh’s society—that I had 
no time to write.” 

‘Ah! that is the reason why their carriage is not waiting 
for you. Colonel Conyers, if you will take a seat with us to 
AHardbargain, and rest for a few hours or a few days as you 
please, we shall be very glad, and we shall furnish you with 
a conveyance to White Cliffs whenever you wish to go.” 

Colonel Conyers expressed himself but too happy to accept 
Mrs. Clifton’s invitation, and they all entered the old-fash- 
iuned carriage, and set out for Hardbargain. The farm was 
nine miles distant, and the road the very roughest, even of 
mountain turnpikes. Colonel Conyers ventured to wonder 
how any carriage could stand it, and surmised that R 
County must be blessed with the best wheelwrights in the 
world—to which Mrs. Clifton replied that they Aad the very 
best to be met with anywhere. 

It was ten o’clock at night when they reached Hardbar 
gain, but they found the hail lighted up, fires blazing in the 








LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. DEI 


parlor, and the dining-room, and a substantial supper waiting 
for the order of the mistress. The farm-house looked cheer- 
ful, hospitable, and inviting; and Colonel Conyers rubbed 
his hands in delight. He remained over night. The next 
day was Christmas, and nothing but the binding engagement 
to render an account of himself to the beautiful Georgia at 
least by Christmas, could have forced him to White Cliffs that 
day. He accepted Mrs. Clifton’s cordial invitation to come 
over often while he remained in the neighborbood. In fact, 
Mrs. Clifton had seen that Colonel Conyers was very much 
pleased with Catherine, and she feit desirous that he shoula 
have an opportunity of winning the affections of her favorite. 
Colonel Conyers took the largest advantage of Mrs. Cliften’s 
hospitality, and not even the charms of the syren of White 
Cliffs, could wile him away from his daily evening ride over 
to Hardbargain. And so, after a few weeks—as there is no 
accounting for tastes, and as the most extraordinary things 
sometimes really do happen—it turned out that Colonel Con- 
yers actually did lay his heart, hand and fortune at the feet 
of the humble girl whom his own subordinate officer, Captain 
Clifton, had despised, and, farthermore, that he was rejected 
by her! Yes! gratefully, kindly, but firmly and finally re- 
jected! And full of disappointment, humiliation and sor- 
row, the gallant Colonel abruptly concluded his visit, and 
returned to town. 

“Oh, Catherine, my dear, if you could but have Jiked 
him well enough to have married him. He is an honest, 
kind-hearted man,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a sigh of regret. 

“Yes, he is a good man. Heaven bless him with a good 
wife,” auswered Kate. 

Neither of these unworldly women once reverted to the 
advantages of rank resigned with the rejected lover. 

And soon Catherine had other thoughts and occupations 
than those connected witb courtship and marriage. The 
situation of her grandfather demanded all her care. For 
many months before this, the long and persevering efforts of 
the patient girl had been blessed with success, and the old 
man had abandoned the use of intoxicating spirits. But 
within the last few weeks the total disuse of the stimulant to 
which he was morbidly accustomed, had began tu produce 
the most dangerous effects upon his aged and infirm frame. 
Ile grew weaker and still weaker, until at length he was 
confined to his bed And so he slowly sank and failed, as 


$58 LIFE’S VARIOUS PIITASES. 


weeks—weary weeks—dragged on tc months. And through 
all this dreary time, day and night, Catherine faithfully 
nursed him. Many a night she sat the only wateher by his 
bedside, hourly expecting his death; and many a morning 
he revived again, so deep a hold had life upon that old, worn 
body. Scarcely for necessary food or rest would Catherine 
leave him, always watching, waiting on and cheering him, 
sometimes—whenever he desired it—reading the Bible te 
him, singing or praying with him. In vain Mrs. Clifton 
noticing the care-worn, toil-worn, emaciated countenance 
of the girl, besought her to take care of her own health. 
Vatherine cared for nothing on earth so much as the aged 
man daily fading away from her sight. And so passed the 
winter. And so opened the spring. And then his old 
disease, if it could be called a disease, took a most alarming 
turn. After a paroxysm more violent than ever had come 
on him before, he fell into a state of greater prostration. 
And the physician hastily summoned, declared that another 
such attack would be fatal, and that only the use of brandy 
could ward the fit off, and save his life. Carl Wetzel replied 
that he felt if he should taste the intoxicating liquid again, 
the fatal appetite for aleohcl would return upon him with 
tenfold violence for the temporary abstinence, and that it 
would totally subject him to its dominion. The doctor 
called him a fool and a fanatic, without self-control or self- 
reliance, and left him to his fate. When the physician had 
left the hut, the old man called his grand-daughter to his 
bedside. 

«< Kate, you heard what the doctor said ?” 

Kate nodded—her heart was too full for speech. 

“My dear child—my dear, good Kate!—he says that 
unless J drink brandy I shall die. But, Kate, if I taste 
brandy again, I feel I shall live a drunkard! Kate, I 
Know you are wise and good beyond your years. Kate, I 
have full faith in you! My child, I will do as you decide 
for me. Darling, shall I drink or die ?” 

Kate sank upon her knees by his bedside, took both his 
venerable hands and kissed and pressed them to her bosom, 
bowed her face over them, and wept in silence. At last, 
raising her head, she gazed earnestly, reverently, lovingly in 
the old man’s face, and answered— 

‘‘ Dearest grandfather, do not ask me, a poor, weak, erring 
gtl! Dearest grandfather, ask God '” 





LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 259 


The old man feebly raised his hand, and placed it on her 
bead and blessed her, adding— 

“1 thank Thee, oh, Father! that out of the mouths of 
babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise !”’ 

Tne next morning, when the doctor came, he found the 
old man sinking fast, yet clinging as human nature will cling, 
to the wish for—the hope of—life. 

‘¢ Doctor, is there no other way of saving me thun that 
you spoke of ?” 

“¢ None, whatever, my good friend; unless you consent to 
save yourself by taking alcohol, you must die.” 

“Then I will die*!” replied Carl Wetzel. 

And within a week from this time the old man died and 
was buried. 

After the funeral was over, Mrs. Clifton invited and urged 
Catherine to come and take up her permanent residence at 
[lardbargain. There were now no reasons why Catherine 
should not, and many why she should, accept this very advan- 
tageous offer. 

Her brother Carl was about to bring home a wife, after 
which he would no longer need Catherine’s services. And 
now that the spring had fully opened, Mrs. Clifton’s health, 
as usual at that season, failed, and she really needed the 
companionship and care of our unprofessed Sister of Charity. 
And, therefore, Catherine accepted her proposal, and came 
to take possession of the room, Mrs. Clifton had fitted up 
for her adjoining her own chamber. It had once been Archer 
Clifton’s room. That was of no consequence to Catherine 
now, however. You need not now be told again that the 
girl was a true Christian. She had great faith—she believed 
in miracles, asserting that the days of miracles had not passed 
—-could not pass until the days of God’s Omnipotence and 
man’s faith should be passed. When the passion of her 
heart was about to become the sin of her soul, she prayed. to 
God to remove the last vestige of that erring, ill-fated love- 
and it was removed-—gone! She could think of him, speak 
of him, without an altered pulse. She knew that he and his 
wife were soon expected at White Cliffs, and she felt that she 
would meet them again without any other emotion than 
pleasure. On the day of her removal to Hardbargain, Mra 
Clifton said to her — 


ee ee ee 





* A Fact. 


260 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 


“‘ Catherine! I see by the Richmond Standard, that Archer 
has resigned his post in the army.” 

“It is not possible, madam !” 

“Yes, indeed.. I was very much astonished to sce it.” 

«¢ What in the world could have been his motive ?”’ 

“JT cannot even fori an idea. No motive was assigned iz 
the paper.” 

‘‘ And did he never mention his intention to you in any 
of his letters ?” 

«Never, Kate. But indeed, I have not heard from him 
for six weeks. I cannot tell the reason why he does not 
write. Perhaps his letters have been lost—the foreign maiis 
are so irregular. 

“Was he at Havana when you heard from him last, 
madam ?”’ 

“ Yes, Catherine—but then he spoke of a speedy return 
home. They should have been here long before this time, 
or at least, he should have written to account for their delay 
I send Henny regularly to the post-office—I have sent her 
to day. I hope I may get a letter, though the chances seem 
to diminish.” 

Even while they spoke, the girl came in with a letter in 
her hand. Mrs. Clifton took it and looked at it, saying— 

“ At last! It is from Havana, Catherine, from Archer.” 

She opened it, and as she read it, her face became very 
grave. And having finished, she fell into thought, and 
said— 

“It is as I feared.” 

“ ] trust there is no bad news, madam?” said Catherine. 

“You shall hear, Kate,” replied the lady, taking up the 
letter and reading as follows ; 


«“ Havana, May 1, 18—. 
“ My Dear Mapam— 

«‘T have to entreat your forgiveness fora silence of four or 
five weeks. I know that you will pardon the seeming neg-- 
lect when you are advised of the cause. Every moment of 
my time for the last month has been taken up in attendanca 
upon the sick couch of my dearest Carolyn. Since the open 
ing of the spring, her health, for the last year so fragile, has 
searfully failed. I have had the best medical advice to be 
found on the island, but her illness has baffled their utmost 
skill. They have recommended me to take her to the South 


LIFE’S VARIQUS PHASES. Qi 4 


of France. In order to do this, I have been obliged to re- 
sign my commission in the army. You have doubtless scen 
my resignation announced in the papers. I suppose the un- 
settled business of the White Cliffs estate must also suffer 
by a absence at this time. But what is that—what is any- 
thing ! all things! in comparison to the health of my beloved 
Carolyn! I write in great haste, on the very eve of sailing, 
for we go on board the Swallow, bound from this port to 
Marseilles, to-day. 
‘With undving respect and affection, 
“ARCHER CLIFTON.” 


«That is very distressing! Alas! then is life made up 
vf nothing but vain desires and blighted hopes—of sorrow 
and sickness and death ?” 

«1 knew it would be so, Catherine—that was a secret rea- 
son I had for not meddling this last time in bringing about a 
reconciliation between Carolyn and Archer. I have known 
for two years past that she was following her mother. All 
those Gowers die early of consumption ” 

‘¢ But, madam, let us hope better things. This sea voyage 
und residence in the South of France, may restore her.” 

«¢ Never, Catherine. And it was even cruel in ghe doctors 
to send her there, to die in a foreign land, among strangers. 
They had better have sent her home to the scenes of her 
childhood and youth, where we could have cheered and 
nursea her. Catherine, I feel very sad.” 

The tears were rolling down Kate’s face. The fountain 
of consolation in her heart was almost dry—and again she 
had to lift her heart to the Divine source of all strengtn and 
light for new faith and hope. Little else but suffering and 
sorrow had the girl seen since she came into the world—and 
no part had she filled in life but that of servant, nurse, Up 
comforter. 

The summer passed with Mrs. Clifton and Catherine in 
almost uninterrupted retirement. They heard, at long inter- 
vals, from Major Clifton and his bride, and then the news was 
various and unsatisfactory. Sometimes Carolyn was better, 
and there would be a talk of speedy return, and, perhaps, 
the very next letter, after a long interval, would speak of a 
season of prostration by extreme illness. And about the 
middle of tne autumn, Mrs. Clifton received a letter fron: 
her s~n announcing their intention of wintering in Lishan. 


9%9 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 


The irregular arrivals of these bulletins were the most in- 
teresting, and nearly the only interesting events of the sum- 
mer and autumn, if we except a descent upon White Clifis 
by Mrs. Georgia and her friends. The syren, after her re- 
turn froexa a summer tour to the fashionable watering places, 
determined to fill up the dull interim before the 2cmmence- 
ment of the season in town, by a visit to her ‘seat in 
R ,”’ as she persisted in calling White Cliffs. <Ac- 
cordingly, she made up a party of idle ladies and sporting 
gentlemen, and came down to spend September. 

olone] Conyers was among the guests. He renewed his 
visits to Hardbargain, and his suit to Catherine—received a 
second rejection, and hurried off to town, under the sting of 
mortification as before. At the first of October, the “ city riff 
raff,” as the old family servants of Clifton irreverently and 
indignantly called the moneyed aristocrats, returned to Rich- 
mond, whither they were shortly followed by their beautiful 
hostess, to prepare for her winter campaign. From this 
time to the middle of December, no event marked the even 
tenor of the life at Hardbargain. The inmates had not 
lately heard from Major Clifton. It was near Christmas 
In her anxiety to hear from Lisbon, Mrs. Clifton was in the 
habit of sending to L twice a week, when the mai 
came in, and sitting up till a very ite hour, waiting for the 
return of the messenger. 

One evening after supper, Mrs. U.*fton and Catherine sa 
vach side their work-stand, before the fire, awaiting the ar 
rival or the boy who had been dispatched to the post-office 
iso often had the lady thus sat and waiied, and been disap 
pointea, that hope waxed very faint. ‘his time, however 
she was destined to have -her heart gladdened by the ful 
Yruition v1 hope. About nine o’clock the messenger returned 
and entered the parlor with a packet of letters and papers 
‘he boy’s race was lighted up with sympathetic joy, and he 
exclaimed, as he handed the bundle— 

‘JT almos’ rid myself to death, mistess, I was so glad I 
had de letters to bring yer.” 

‘‘You have made great haste indeed, Neddy. Go tell 
YTenny to give you your supper,” said the lady. 

“Good boy.” said Kate, pressing his little sooty hand as 
he passed her and went out. 

Mrs. Clifton was reading a letter from Archer. It was 
written ina glad, buoyant spir't and contained the best pox 








LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 963 


sible news. Against all hope, Carolyn’s health since her 
arrival at Lisbon had steadily improved, and it was now so 
far re-established, .that they were already looking forward to 
their voyage at the earliest opening of spring. Carolyn had 
gained flesh and color as well as health, and strength and 
cheerfulness, and was looking far better than she had looked 
since his first meeting her again at Richmond. Mrs. Clifton 
repeated all this to Catherine, adding— 

‘“‘ It is true, Kate, that none of her family who have per- 
ished by her disease ever tried a change of climate, and 
although in most cases such a change hurries the patient to 
the grave, yet, in some instances, it seems to work wonders 
in the way of cure ; and who knows, if Carolyn is so greatly 
benefited, that she may not get over this danger, and if not 
positively cured, yet live to a good old age, and die at last 
of something else, as I have heard of consumptives doing.” 

“Pm so glad!”? Catherine sat with her face suffused with 
the flush, and her eyes filled with the tears of sympathizing 
joy and thanksgiving. After reading and re-reading the 
letter, and dwelling on it, and talking of it, Mrs. Clifton 
finally unfolded the paper, the Richmond Standard, and 
running her eyes over its columns, suddenly exclaimed— 

«‘ Catherine, ‘When joys come they come not as single 
spies but in battalions’—here is excellent news of an old 
friend—listen—only two or three lines among the ‘ items’ of 
a newspaper column, yet of what great moment to many— 
hear.” And the lady read :—* At the conclusion of the 
recent treaty of peace between this government and the 
Shoshonowa Nation, aiong the prisoners held to ransom was 
. the gallant Captain Fairfax, supposed to have fallen under 
their tomahawks, at the massacre near Fort Protection. 
This brave but unfortunate officer is now understood to be 
on his way to the seat of government.” 

Catherine was positively speechless with joy; only her 
clasped hands and fervent countenance revealed what she 
felt. In the great, though calm surprise and rejoicings over 
the event, these friends forgot its singularity, until after a 
long while Catherine exclaimed— 

“ Poor Zuleime! Oh, how could such a fatal misrepre- 
sentation have been made of the case? It was reported that 
he was cloven down from his saddle, and then butchered !”’ 

“Tt was not a willful misrepresentation. It was a misap- 
prehension The few who escaped to tell the tale of the 


264 LIFE’S VARIOUS PHASES. 


massacre, no doubt had seen him struck down; and don’t 
you see in the terror and confusion, they imagined the rest—- 
knowing perfectly well that scalping and rifling the bodies 
are the almost invariable custom of the savages? And then 
remember, Catherine, the body taken for the corpse of Cap- 
tain Fairfax, was so rifled and mutilated, as to be unrecog- 
nizable, except upon circumstantial evidence.” 

“‘So indeed it was said to be! I would the mistake had 
never been made though! It killed Zuleime!” 

‘¢ Catherine, my child, I have no idea that ZuJeime was 
really drowned.” 

«© Madam !” 

‘“¢ Do you not know, Catherine, that any body drowned in that 
part of the river where the supposed signs of her suicide were 
found, must have come to light. Don’t you know that the 
current is very rapid there, and that a ledge of rocks crosses 
the river a few yards below it, upon which her body must 
have been thrown, if she had been in the river atall? And, 
Catherine, if I have never breathed this thought before, it was 
upon account of poor Carolyn. I knew that in her weak, de- 
pressed state of mind and body, she could better bear the 
belief of Zuleime’s death, than the frightful uncertainty of 
her fate. You are discreet, Kate; you will not breathe 
this to Carolyn, or to any one, lest it should reach her ear.” 

«Never! And do you know, dear Mrs. Clifton, I have 
sometimes had the thought that Zuleime might yet be living— 
and I dared not indulge the hope secretly—iuch less breathe 
it aloud.” 

“And what was your reason for such a supposition, 
Catherine ?” 

“Why my thought was not so well founded—so logical as 
yours. I knew nothing about the peculiarities of the river. 
My thought was only a vague hope, and it agitated me so 
mach as to interfere with my practical duties. I had to 
banish it.” 

‘You are so sensitive, so sympathetic, my dear girl 
Well, Kate, no more exciting talk to-night. We will return 
thanks to God fcr these glad tidings, and then retire to 

rest.” 


ZULEIME. 2A5 


CHAPTER XXIil. 


ZULEIME. 


Among a jumbled heap of murky buildings.—Kzars. 


ZULEIME had been placed by Georgia under the care of a 
poor woman, the wife of a carver and gilder, who had occa- 
sionally worked for her father. And as long as the funds 
of the belle had held out, the trifling expenses of such poor 
board and lodging had been regularly paid. But when the 
syren was reduced to support her own extravagance entirely 
by credit, founded upon the false reputation of wealth—her 
small remittances to her protégé, or rather her victim, ceased. 
Zuleime was afraid to seek her, afraid to write to her—there 
was nothing she feared more than discovery, and the 
recognition of her hand-writing on the superscription of a 
letter might have led to that. It was long after the death 
of her father before she heard of it—nor then did she hear 
any of the particulars of time, place or circumstance. The 
fact came to her knowledge irregularly, through the report 
of the transcendant charms and conquests of his beautiful 
young widow. A long and dangerous iliness was the result 
of this sudden news. It was some weeks after her recovery 
before the poor people of the house, who had long despaired 
of getting anything for her board, could find it in their kind 
hearts to ask her to seek another home. And even then they 
sent a sigh after the desolate young widow—the child who 
went forth carrying in her arms another child. And how 
she lived during the interval between that and the period at 
which I shall again introduce her to you, I cannot tell. 
Sometimes a little fine needle-work came to her hands ; some- 
times a spell of want, reaching almost to starvation; then a 
little assistance from neighbors ; and a little going in debt to 
shopkeepers. And then she always lodged with the poor. 
And the poor seldom persecute the poor; remember that 
the need family who first sheltered her, had been for months 


256 ZULEIME. 


at the sole expense of her food, lodging, and long illness- 
and yet they had never reproached or persecuted her for un- 
paid debts—though they scarcely refrained from reproaching 
themselves for sending her away. 

In a quiet, back street, mostly inhabited by very humble 
people, in the middle of the square, and fronting immediately 
upon the battered pavement, stood an old two-story brick 
house, occupied by a poor cabinet-maker and old furniture 
dealer. The lower front room was used as the ware-room, 
and crowded and piled up with every description of miseras 
bly dilapidated houschold furniture, apparently good for 
nothing else under the sun but kindling wood, and scarcely 
worth splitting up for that. Old worm-eaten, carved ma- 
hogany bureaus and bedsteads; tables without legs or leaves; 
chairs without backs; cradles without bottoms or rockers ; 
clocks wanting faces; beaufets wanting doors; sofas minus 
arms ; smoky pictures without frames; and tarnished frames 
without pictures ; worm-eaten cabinets, and mildewed look- 
ing-glasses ; broken pots, pans and kettles; and mismatched 
erockery-ware i in any quantity. 

Reader, I do not wish to give you an inventory of an old 
furniture-shop, but merely some idea of the inextricable con- 
fusion in which this heterogeneous mass of worn-out, broken, 
worm-eaten, mildewed, fly-stained, dust-clothed, cobweb- 
veiled items, were piled up from floor to ceiling. 1t would make 
your heart and head ache with wondering what sort of a liy- 
ing could be picked out from so much dirt, disorder and 
deeay—and who on earth could be the patrons of the establish- 
ment. You would unconsciously gather close about you 
your most worthless dress in passing through the shop, and 
look up in involuntary dread of a broken head or limbs, by 
the fall of some of those dilapidated, ill-balanced, old chairs 
and tables. 

The family of the chair-maker consisted of himself, his 
wife, and two daughters. They were Germans, with the 
usual talent of that race for money-getting and money-keep- 
ing. And the man made at least a hundred per cent. on 
every old, rickety, worm-eaten bureau or table that, mended 
and varnished, left his shop. They added to their income, 
hy letting the rooms of their house, and occasionally by 
taking a profitable boarder. 

It was in the early part of the same autumn which found 
ber sister Carclyn in Lisbon—and Mrs Clifton and Cathe 


ZULEIME. | 263 


rine alone at Hardbargain, that Zuleime beeame a tenant of 
the German cabinet-maker. She occupied the back room, 
on the second floor; the two daughters of the family using 
the front room as a sleeping apartment. She had the use of 
the street passage door, and so reached her room without 
passing through the shop or any part of the house oceu- 
pied by the family or their boarders. The refinement in 
which she had been born and bred, was not lost amid ber 
bitter poverty. It constrained her to seek privacy of life at 
least. She supported herself and child, just now, by doiig 
fine needle-work for some ladies on a transient visit to the 
eity. But the work was precarious, and the supply might 
be cut off at any moment. Her expenses were small, how- 
ever, and her economy wonderful. Her neat, but poorly 
furnished room, cost her but ten shillings a month; a bushe 
of meal and a pint of salt, five shillings; milk for the child, 
two shillings; fuel, eight shillings; washing, three shillings ; 
eandle-light, two shillings; and the attendance of .a boy to 
bring water and cut wood, three shillings—making the sum 
total of her monthly expenses only one pound, fourteen shil- 
lings, or little more than six dollars. Her only food was 
mush or corn-cakes prepared from the meal. She could not 
have kept up very long under this regimen ; deed, although 
_she knew it not, she was slowly dying of a disease as com- 
mon as lingering, and as universally ignored as that of a 
broken heart—namely, innutrition or slow starvation. Her 
German hostess, kind-hearted, notwithstanding her money 
zrasping propensities, often sent her a bowl of “ noodle soup,” 
with a little plate of “sour-krout,” and a tumbler of 
schnapps, or some such combination of German luxuries. 
But Zaleime, who managed to exist upon coarse food, could 
not endure gross food, and she would turn away from 
such, scarcely able to conceal the sickness the very odor so 
unpetizing to a Dutch stomach, excited in hers. Still her 
refusal of the viands was couched in words so gentle and 
prateful, as never to offend her landlady. Some of my 
readers may wonder wh‘; Zuleime did not do her washing, 
water-drawing, etc., with her own hands, and take the money 
paid for having those things done, and buy better food} 
Because, for one reason, she had not the requisite physical 
strength or skill—and besides, perhaps. she shrank from the 
exposure necessarily incurred in these labors. She had not in 
these two years, forgotten the delicacy and refinement in which - 


S68 ZULEIME. 


she had been nurtured. On the contrary, everything in her 
appearance and manners, betrayed the gentle-woman. She 
had but one dress in the world—all the others had been cut 
ap to make clothes for her little girl. Her sole gown was 
black bombazine, which she had worn daily for nearly two 
years—yet so good was its original quality, and so well had 
it been preserved, that it was now neither rusty nor thread- 
bare. It was shaken out and hung up every night, and well 
brushed and spunged every week. This dress, with the 
little inside ’kerchief of linen, was always neat and lady-like. 
Zuleime’s fine needle-work gave out—as she knew it would— 
and she found herself without employment, or funds. It was 
then that Bertha and Wilhelmina Erhmientraut, the daugh- 
ters of her Jandlord, told her of a German clothier on Main 
street, who had advertised for a number of needle-women to 
make vests. Zuleime confessed her total ignorance of that 
branch of needle work. But the kind German girls promised 
that if she would procure the work, they would give her 
some instructions how it should be done. Zuleime gratefully 
accepted their offer, and prepared to set out on her long 
walk by donning the little black bonnet and shawl, as neat 
and as well preserved as her dress had been. She could not 
father tax the kindness of her landlord’s family by leaving 
her child in their care, she had been obliged to put the little 
one to sleep, and lock it up in her room, only leaving her 
key with her landlady—* in case anything should happen” 
while she was gone. It was a long, weary tramp to Main 
street, where the clothier’s store was situated. When she 
entered the show-shop and made her business known, she was 
directed into a back room, where a man, behind a long table, 
was engaged in cutting out garments—and many bundles of 
sut out but unmade clothes, tied around with skeins of thread, 
lay piled up at one end. Zulcime walked up té this table. 
The foreman, as he appeared to be, laid down his shears and 
touked up, saying deferentially— 

‘What did you wish to look at, madam? Mr. Schneider, 
attend this lady.” 

«You are inerror. I do not wish to look at your wares, 
You advertised work to give out; can I have some ?” 

The tailor looked at her again. He saw, from her gentle 
manners and appearance, that she was a lady, guessed from 
her dress that she was a widow, and knew by her errand that 
she was self-dependert, unprotected ;. so there existed no 


ZULEIME. 25% 


enrthly reason why a coarse-minded, craven-hearted man, 
whu spent his whole days in smirking, cringing, deprecating 
and deferring to others, should not retresh his soul by a little 
impurtinence and insolence to so safe a subject as a poor 


lady 


‘¢Ind you ever make vests?’ he asked, in a short, curt, 
fnsolewt manner. 

“oN, ” answered Zuleime, “ but I sew very neatly—-un- 
usually aeatly, my patrons say—and as you cut and baste 
the wosk, very little instruction would enable me to make 
them ve.y nicely.” 

“JT shan’t trust you! [have had quite enough in my tine 
of giving out work to people who know nothing about the 
business.” 

It was tot the words so much as the insulting manner cf 
the man, chat shocked the gentle-hearted woman, and she 
turned and left the shop, ready to sink, not so much under 
disappoint.nent, though she knew not where to turn for work 
or money er food—but under the deeply humiliating sense 
of the rudcuess and vulgarity to which she was forced to ex- 
pose herselr in this bitter struggle through the world. She 
walked slowly, thoughtfully, sadly away from the shop, till 
the sudden chought of her child’s awakening, electrified her, 
and she hu.:ried on until she reached home. She obtained 
her key fron: the landlady, in the basement, and entered the 
passage. It was then that she heard a very sweet, gentle 
voice, apparently near her room door, saying— 

“ Don’t cry, baby! poor baby, don’t ery! mother will come 
by-and-by! Dear pretty baby, don’t ery! Tl bring you 
all my playthings, and a little dog, when I can get in.” 

And then, in the pause of the child’s wails and broken 
talk, and baby plaints, she ran up stairs at once, and there, 
kneeling before her door, and talking through the key-hole, 
was a sweet little dark haired girl of about five years old, 
and dressed in deep mourning. Ler hat of the finest Leg- 
lorn straw, the richness of the black ribbon that bound it— 
the fineness of the black bombazine frock and the linen cam- 
briv tucker, the delicate shoes and stockings—-the gentle, re- 
fine manner, all bespoke a child of a different rank from 
those seen in that neighborhood, and especially in that house. 
The child got up and stood aside when she saw the lady come 
with the key to unlock the door. When Zuleime had en- 
tere? her room, and lifted the babe to her lap, she called the 


L3 | 


270 ZULEIME. 


little girl up to her side. She was a lovely child indeed, 
with fair skin and delicate features—jet-black hair, eye- 
brows and eye-lashes, and large, mournful, dark gray eyes. 

“You are a dear little girl. What is your name? asked 
Zul ime, pulling her around her waist caressingly. 

« [da ; see what a nice new black dress ve got. They 
gave it to me when father died. Mother wears one, too. 
You’ve got a black dress on, too! Is your father dead ?” 

“ Yes, darling,” said Zuleime, with her eyes suffused. 

‘Don’t cry, please! . Mother cries so much. JI do wish 
she wouldn’t! Is the baby’s father dead, too?” 

“ Yes—yes, love—the baby’s father is dead, too !” 

“© Well—please don’t cry so! Mother says we have all 
got a father in Heaven! O/! please don’t cry so! It gives 
me such a—such an ache m the breast to see anybody cry 
so,” said the child, and her mournful, but most beautiful eyes 
assunied a pleading, painful, almost querulous look. 

“Who zs your mother, swect Ida?’ asked Zuleime, to 
chuuge the subject of her own and her little companion’s 
thoughts. 

“Mrs. Knight, you know, the leading lady. Did they 
put the baby’s father in a long red box, and send him away ?” 

‘¢ Yes, yes, Ida. Where does your mother live ?”’ 

s¢ She lives here, in the back room, down stairs. We came 
to-day. She is going to play to-night, and then Ill be by 
myself. Did they hold the baby up to kiss her father like 
they did me? And did he put his hand on her head and 
call her his fawn-eyed darling? That was when he was or 
the bed. And afterwards he went to sleep. And they said 
he was dead. Was that the way with the baby’s father ?”’ 

‘<T don’t want to talk about it, dear Ida. Tell me of your 
mother. What does she play on—the organ ?” 

‘“‘No! I don’t know. Yes 1 do, too!—the stage. Look 
at my nice new hat. It used to have a wreath of red roses 
round it. But when father died, mother took it off and put 
this black ribbon there. ‘Mother wears roses on her head, 
though. At night, { mean. AJIl day long she wears black, 
and looks so pale and weeps. But at night, she puts beauu- 
ful flowers in her hair, and sometimes gold and fine feathers— 
and she has such swect long curls and rosy cheeks—and such 
beautiful dresses. And father used to wear beautiful clothes 
at night, red and gold, and feathers. I do want to see father 
so wucl. IL wish they’d bring him back. Do you think it 





ZULEIME. | 271 


will be long before I see him?’ asked the child, as the large 
tears rolled down her cheeks. 

« Perhaps not, my love. Is your mother an actress, then ” 

«Yes, that is what she is. Don’t cry, now! It gives me 
a pain in my bosom. Please don’t cry; if you don’t, J won’t,”’ 
said the child, wiping her eyes. Then suddenly she exclaimed, 
¢Oh! I forcot, I promised to bring the baby my playthings 
und iny curly dog ;? and so saying , the child ran away ap 
ecampered down stairs. 

Zuleime lcoked in vain for her return, and finally con- 
cluded that her mother had detained her. But if the child 
did not come, somebody else did. Wilhelmina entered, and 
kindly inqtired after her lodger’s success in seeking work 
When she learned her failure, she begged Zuleime not to be 
troubled, for that there was work in the house for her if she 
would take it. That the new boarder, Mrs. Knight, the lead 
ing lady of the Richmond Theatre, wanted assistance in 
making up some dresses, that were to be ready in a few days. 
That sbe, Wilhelmina, had recommended their lodger, and 
if the young lady pleased, she would conduct her down and 
introduce her to Mrs. Knight. Zuleime thanked the kind 
hearted girl, and prepared to accompany her—sensible amid 
all her other emotions of a rustic’s curiosity to see a really 
living actress, for she had never in her life seen one off the 
boards. She followed Wilhelmina down the stairs into the 
passage. _ Near the foot of the stairs was a door leading into 
the first floor back room. At this door Wilhelmina rapped 
It was opened by Ida, who, as soon as she saw Zuleime, ex- 
— elaimed— 

Oh! it’s you! Comein. Mother! here is the baby’s 
mother !” 

“It is I, Mrs. Knight, with the person I spoke of. Mas 
we come in?” inquired Wilhelmina. 

“ Assuredly. Do so,” replied the sweetest, deepest voice 
Znleime thought she had ever heard. And they entered the 
room. Wilhelmina introduced Mrs. Fairfax, and withdrew. 
The apartment in which Zuleime found herself, was the best 
furnished room in the house—decidedly—having a good warm, 
hued carpet on the floor, crimson stuff curtains at the only 
back window, a grate with a coal fire, a four-post bedstead, 
with tester, net valance and a white counterpane, a 
bureau with tall dressing-glass, and wash-stand, with china 
tulet serwee. But it was in a state of confusion only less 


212 ZULEIME. 


than that of the adjoining shop. Trunks, boxes, and band 
boxes of all sizes, forms and colors, some corded and piled 
up one above the other, and some open and boiling up and 
over with all sorts of finery and tinsel, satins, silks and vel- 
vets, feathers, flowers and fustian, which also trailed upon 
the carpet, and strewed the chairs. An oil painting, in a 
large heavy gilt frame, leaned with its face against the wall. 
On the bed, a black mantle and bonnet, with a widow’s veil, 
lay side by side with a gorgeous scarlet velvet train, embroi- 
dered with gold, an imitation ermine robe, a crown of gilt 
aud paste, a plume of feathers, and great bunches of sham 
pearls. On a low trunk, in the midst of this sad chaos of 
poverty and glitter, mumimery and mourning, sat one who 
lmediately drew and fixed Zuleime’s attention. A tall, 
noble looking woman, of perhaps thirty years of age, clothed 
in deep mourning, with her heavy black hair banded around 
her forehead and temples, and shading a countenance dark 
and cavernous, with its large hollow eyes and hollow cheeks, 
but majestic with power, earnestness and truth, and beautiful 
with tlose grand, mournful eyes, whose mesmeric spell was 
felt by Zuleime, on whom they were now brought to bear. 

“ Take a seat, Mrs. Fairfax. You find me here in great 
sonfusion, becanse I have but just arrived, and have had to 
aupack and look over all these trunks, to select and prepare 
no less than four costumes for the evening,” said the same 
rich, full, deep tones, as their owner cleared a chair of 
spangled robes and plumes, and offered it to her visitor. 

«‘ Mother is going to wear this dress this evening—isn’t it 
pretty ?’ said Ida, climbing upon the foot of the bed. 

Zuleime turned her eyes with childish interest towards the 
tobes ; and Mrs. Knight, observing her look of curiosity, 
said - 

« They firm a portion of the Queen Katherine costume. 
They are going to bring out Henry VIIL, this evening.” 

Zuicine glanced from the costume to the haggard, but 
voble-looking woman, and thought that she might represent 
the unhappy Queen very well, as far as personal appearance 
would go, but instead of expressing this opinion, she said— 

“The young German girl told me that you wanted some 
assistance in needle-work. I shall be glad to help you.” 

‘The dark, mournful eyes rose slowly, and grew still, ook. 
ing at the young widow, in whom they now began to recog- 
nize that most piteous of all beings—-a reduced lady. 


ZULEIME. OTe 


“ Sit down—prvy sit down,” she said, to Zuleime, who still 
emained standing. 

Zuleime took the vacant chair. 

“ Would you object, Mrs. Fairfax, to sitting with me while 
you sew? There are alterations to be maae in these four 
wueen Katherine dresses, in which you would require my 
advice.” 

Zuleime hesitated, and then answered— 

‘‘ | should not like to leave my little child alone, madam.’ 

“‘ Let me !—let me !—let me go up and stay with the baby!” 
eagerly interrupted ida, jumping down from the bed, and 
running up and seizing the hand of Ler mother. 

The dark eyes sank fondly on the little one, and the rich 
voice—richer now with maternal love, replied— 

“‘ Certainly you may go, if the lady will permit you to de 
50.” 

Zuleime hesitated again, then said— 

‘Thank you. I shall be very glad. Let me go up first, 
and make the fire safe.” And she left the room, followed by 
Ida, who ran back first, to throw her arms around her mo- 
ther’s neck, and kiss her “¢ good-bye.” 

When Zuleime reached her room, she placed the blower 
before the grate, for safety—hid away all implements with 
which the children might harm themselves, and leaving the 
little ones at play upon the rag carget, returned below stairs, 
and went to work. Her new occupation was indeed of an 
odd and miscellaneous description—ripping off gold lace, 
and sewing in its place imitation sable; trimming buskins, 
and lastly, making up an ancient coiffure, all under the direc- 
tion of the shadowy-faced woman, who, all this time, sat upon 
the trunk, with a tattered play-book on her knee, studying 
her part. 

Zuleime spoke of Ida—her beauty, her charming manner. 

“Ts she? Do you find her so? I thought that might be 
only my partiality. Poor little one! She isa great comfort 
and a great sorrow to PEs) if you can understand such a 
paradox.” 

“ Yes, I can understand it,” said Zuleime. 

«| have to leave her all the forenoon, for the purpose of 
attending the rehearsals, and then, before ‘t is time for her to 
go to bed, I have to leave her, alone, and go to the theatre, aud 
be absent till a late hour of the night. And then the fear 
af fire. or of acc‘dent, while I am gone from her, wears me 


2741 ZULEIME. 


out. Worse than that, all day and night, while away from 
her, is the dread of her getting in the street, and into evil 
coripany.” And the eyes of the woman assumed an anxious, 
haggard, querulous look, as she dropped them upon her book. 

‘Give your little girl into my care. [am never absent 
from home except early in the morning—as to-day—and at 
that hour you are here.” 

The dark eyes flew up and fastened themselves upon the 
face of Zuleime, and the deep voice inquired— 

“ Would you really take charge of her for me? Oh, it 
is too much for you, and too good in you. I don’t under- 
stand it.” 

“Indeed I shall be very glad to do so. The presence of 
a lovely child is a great pleasure tome. Leave Ida with me 
this evening while you are gone, and I will put her to bed 
when the time comes.” 

‘¢ For this evening I will gratefully accept your kindness, 
but you may find her more inconvenient than you anticipate,” - 
said Mrs. Knight. And then she dropped her eyes again 
upon her book, and Zuleime went on silently with her sewing. 
About sunset the work was nearly completed, and the cos- 
tume, with the exception of the coiffure, upon which Zuleime 
was still engaged, was packed in band-boxes, to be conveyed 
to the theatre. Then Mrs. Knight rang a little hand bell, 
and when it was answered by the eutrance of Bertha Erh- 
mientraut, she said,—‘ Please send ine a lad to carry these 
boxes for me, and ask your mother to make mea very strong 
cup of coffee.” 

Bertha disappeared, and Mrs. Knight put on her bonnet 
and shawl. And soon a ragged boy appeared at the door, 
who agreed to carry the boxes for a sixpence. Mrs. Knight 
loaded and dispatched him at the same moment that Bertha 
ze-appeared with a huge cup of strong coffee, which she took 
and drank off, standing. hen, as she handed back the empty 
cup to the German girl, and received from Zuleime the 
finished coiffure pinned up in a paper, she said— 

«“ That cup of coffee will give me strength to go through 
my heavy part to-night, but will leave me at its close more 
exlausted than ever; thus I discount future health and life 
for present bread ” And so she went off, her eyes gleaming 
under the excitement of a stimulant narcotic, as fatal, if not 
as disreputable, as opium or alcohol. Zuleime went up to 
ner own room, and prepared the frugal supper for herself and 


ZULEIME. 975 


the two children, that were still playing on the carpet. She 
got a donble portion of milk from the German people, on ac- 
connt of hier little guest, Ida declaring that she liked milk 
with corn cake crumbled in it better than anything, it was so 
sweet. And then when the babe was undressed and put to 
bed, the little girl’s eyes waxed heavy and dim, and Zuleime 
took her down stairs into her mother’s room, and disrobed 
and washed and prepared her for bed. And when the child 
was apont to kiss her friend and spring into bed, Zuleime 
said — 

“Stor, Ida. Don’t you say your prayers 

“No, ma’am.” 

“ Bur don’t you wish to ?” 

“Ob yes, ma’am,” said the child, and running back, she 
kneeled down at Zuleime’s knees, and placed her little hands 
together and looked up for instruction. 

Zuleime thought the shortest, simplest infant’s prayer she 
knew of was the best, because readily understood and easily 
remembered. And so she took the little one’s folded hands 
between her own, and bade her repeat after her— 


Q> 


“ Now [ lay me down to sleep, 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep. 
If 1 should die before 1] wake, 

I pray the Lord my scul to take.” 


“That is a sweet little verse. What ts my soul?’ asked 
the child. 

Zuleime hesitated, puzzled for an answer; then she said 
for want of a better— 
“It is what you think with, and wonder with, and what 
you are sorry or glad with, and what will live forever.” 

“T love you withit then. Good-night, good, pretty lady.” 

“ Good-night, sweet child.” And Zuleime laid her in the 
bed, and kissed her fair eyelids down to slumber. 

Vout. H. . 


276 THE CATASTROPIIE. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE CATASTROPHE. 
To die mid flame and smoke !—Har.eck 


HEAVEN knows that it is now difficult enough for a poor 
woman to make a living. But in the days when Zuleime 
lived and suffered, it was even more so. It was especially 
hard in Virginia, where, owing to the prevalence of the law 
of entail, the rich were very rich, and the poor very poor. 
Where, besides, ladies took pride in their domestic and in- 
dustrious habits, the favorite and most inveterate of which 
was that of doing their own sewing, forgetful of the poor 
widow and orphan, who might be suffering for the want of 
the work. It was for such reasons that Zuleime found little 
or ro employment—at most of the houses where she applied 
sbe was told that—‘* We never give out needle-work,” -or 
that, «The ladies of the house do all the family sewing.” 
All very well, in moderation. Industry is a praiseworthy 
habji, when it does not compromise justice and merey—wnen 
it dees not hinder us to “live and let live.” Let us be 
dit‘yent in our several callings; put for Heaven’s sake, if 
we ean possibly afford it, let us never refuse to give work to 
those who need, or who ask it c*ms. They may be suffering 
for it, they may be starving for it, they may be dying for it, 
as Zuleime was. They may be driven to vice, to crime, for 
the want of it, as Zuleime was not, thank Heaven. Reader, 
this portion of my story at least is no fiction. Nor was 
Zuleime’s case’ then a solitary one. Nor would it be such 
now. There are many poor women, in every city, who have 
not work enough to earn their necessary food and fuel. And 
this is one of the causes :—There are hundreds of ladies, of 
the iniddle classes of society, who work themselves nearly to 
death, and really shorten their lives, by sewing for their 
large families, in order to save money to lay out in dress for 
themselves and children, mcre genteel than needful; or in 


THE CATASTROPHE. 277 


furniture, which they do not live very long to enjoy. And 
all this time there are hundreds of poor women around them 
suffering for a part of this very work with which they are 
killing themselves. Yes, hundreds who die annually of in-< 
nutrition—a slow, cruelly slow starvation, prolonged from 
month to month, or from year to year, according to thcir 
relative strength of constitution. I know it. For I have 
lived among them, and seen for myself, and not another. The 
doctors call the want, of which they die, consumption—I 
think it is rather non-consumption. Zuleime sank deeper 
and deeper into penury. As autumn advanced into winter, 
and as her necessities increased, her ability to supply them 
decreased. Her poverty began to betray itself sadly in her 
eat appearance. Her face was thin and wan, with great, 

right, hungry lookmg eyes—her hands wasted to semi- 
transparency. Her only gown, her black bombazine, was 
rusty and threadbare, and embossed with darns—her shoes 
were so bad as to look scarcely decent. And amid all her 
other troubles, there was room for humiliated feelings upon 
even this account. The present was wretched—the future 
hopeless. She had heard of people perishing from cold and 
hunger, and to such an end she thought her life seemed 
tending. Yet miserable as was the condition of Zuleime, 
there were many then, are many now, in much worse situa- 
tions. She at least was starving in a tolerably clean room, 
in privacy and in peace. Far happier than some who perish 
in the midst of vice and filth and squalor. Yes, reader, 
there are such things; they do exist in my neighborhood, 
and yours, and it is just as well that they should sometimes 
be remembered. Zuleime was dying of want. And did the 
people of the house know nothing of this? Yes, they knew 
something of it, and her German landlord trembled for his 
rent, his wife wished that they had never seen the poor thing, 
and the two girls pitied her very deeply. And Mrs. Knight 
saw it all, and suffered in sympathy, and gave the poor, 
dying girl, all the work she had to give, and paid her for 
doing it as liberally as she could afford. But Mrs. Knight 
was not able, from her scanty salary, to keep up her expen- 
sive, professional wardrobe, and support two families besides. 
The greater part of the money Zuleime made, by sewing for 
the poor actress, was paid for rent, to keep the roof over her 
head that bitter weather, and t) supply the daily two-penca 
worth of milk foi the child. If » few pence were left ovor, 


278 THE CATASTROPHE. - 


they were spent in cheap pilot bread, sparingly eaten by here 
self. Jor wecks together she had no fire, no fuel, but would 
tmanage to keep her child warm by seating her in the middle 
of the bed, well wrapped up. By the side of the head of the 
bedstead, and looking to the south, was the only back win- 
dow of her room. When she had work, she would sit by 
this window and sew, while her child sat wrapped up in the 
bed. When she had no work, she would still sit there and 
rock her child upon her bosom, singing to her all the while. 
Unearthly and spiritual was the wan, moonlight face, with 
its large, luminous eyes—unearthly and spiritual was the 
voice in which she sang her child to rest, as she sat by the 
south window. She found room in her burdened heart to 
love that sunny window, with its glimpses of a river land- 
scape, with waterfalls and hills and forests, and nearer, lying 
between her and the water, the pleasure-grounds around a 
fair mansion of white freestone, that fronted on the river. 
That fine place took in nearly a whole square, and was sepa- 
rated from this poor house and lot, first, by a broad, back 
alley, then a tall brick wall, with capacious stables and 
coach-houses, then the garden, with terraces and conserva- 
tory, and so up to the venetian back piazza of the mansion. 
Every day, and all day long through the glowing autumn 
weather, she had sat and feasted her eyes and mind upon 
these pleasure-grounds, with their gorgeous flowers and mag- 
nificent trees, and the palace-home in the midst, a picture of 
veauty and glory, telling besides of plenty, elegance, refine- 
ment, leisure, artistic taste, intellectual pursuits, family 
union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out te 
look for work, she had walked quite around the square te 
get in front of the mansion, and satisfy her soul with the 
architectural] beauty and elegance of the edifice, as it stood 
elevated by a flight of terraces far above the street, and 
commanding for many miles the mighty course of the river. 
Often in the autumn weather, had she walked under this 
southern wall, and even in the midst of her deep distresses, 
looked up in childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers, 
trailing luxuriantly over the iron railing. Why did this 
place interest her so? Not because it was a palace-home, in 
such strong contrast to her own poor dwelling—not because 
she passed it almost every day—not because its magnificent 
grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room. 
Ah, n+: But because there was a rural] character, and a 


THE CATASTROPHE, 2Ty 


fine, old, ancestral look about the place, that reminded her 
of ber dear, lost home. Everything connected with the sre- 
mises interested her, even that capacious family carriage, 
with its round bodied, gray coach horses, and its fat coach- 
man, which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to 
take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire 
who lived there. One day, when walking in front of the 
house on tae other street, she had scen a lady in deep mourn- 
ing come out and get in the carriage. She had time to see 
that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed so sweet 
and benevolent a face, that she was encouraged to call and 
ask for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful 
grounds, and ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight 
up the rising terraces until she reached the Grecian portico 
and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man servacit, 
to whom she communicated her business. He called a wait- 
ing-woman, who came, and after hearing what the visitor 
wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needle-work 
was done by a young person, who lived companion to her 
mistress, who was too infirm to see strangers. Zuleime 
never tried there again. But the sweet, sorrowful face of 
the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor window 
npon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest 
than ever. 

Truly the world is “full of paper walls.” How little Zu- 
leime surmised that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over 
the very same bereavement that had laid her own life waste— 
that the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady, whose grief-worn coun- 
tenance haunted her so, was the mother of her lost Frank ; 
that the proud mansion house, in the midst of its pleasure- 
grounds, was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that 
rested on her wasted bosom. 

How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the 
palace guess that her lost son’s widow sat pining, starving 
so near her! The world is full of paper walls, but fate 
makes them firmer, stronger, more indestructible than ada- 
mant. 

Upon that very same December night that found Mrs 
Clifton and Catherine rejoicing over the good news they had 
heard from their friends, upon that very night Zuleime sat 
shivering in her room, without fire, food or light. She had 
given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that 
she had it to give, though she herself went hungry. And 


280 THE CATASTROPHE, 


she had wrapped the babe in her shawl, and sat by the wine 
dow, singing and rocking her to sleep. The room was in- 
tensely cold, she was chilled to the heart, her feet were numb, 
and almost lifeless. ‘The only warmth in her body seemed 
to be the bosom at which the child was pressed. The snow 
was falling fast without, but even through its flakes she saw 
the lighted windows of the mansion-house glowing through 
the crimson curtains, and streaming redly across the snow- 
clad ground. And she sat and thought of the comforts 
within that parlor. While she sat there thinking, there came 
a gentle knock at her door. 

“ Who is there?’ inquired Zuleime. 

‘Tt is I, Mrs. Fairfax,” replied the voice of the actress. 

“ Come in, Mrs. Knight.” 

The actress entered, saying, with a little pardonable tact— 

“ Oh, you are putting your child to sleep in the dark. It 
is singular some little ones never will go to sleep where there 
is a light burning. Js she asleep ?” 

“Yes,” replied Zuleime. 

“Then please put her in bed, my dear, and come down 
stairs with me. I have something to talk to you about.” 

Zuleime laid her little girl in bed, and tottering with weak- 
ness, from her long fast and the cold, accompanied the actress 
down stairs. 

Mrs. Knight opened her own room, and revealed a warm 
coal-fire burning in the grate, and a little supper-table set 
out, with coffee, French rolls, nice butter, and stewed oysters. 
She set the cushioned rocking-chair for Zuleime, between 
the fire and the table, and pushed her gently into the seat, 
saying— 

“<T have holyday to-night, and for a week from to-night, 
because the opera troupe are here. And so I thought ] 
would just celebrate its commencemert by a supper and a 
ball for two!” And she placed before her visitor a plate of 
oysters and a cup of coffee. When the little supper was 
fairly commenced, Mrs. Knight said, ‘I did not send for you, 
only to take coffee with me—TI wished to speak to you on a 
matter of business. I have been wishing some time to do so, 
but scarcely knew how to do it without wounding or offends 
ing you.”’ She paused. 

«Ah! are you so considerate? Yet you need not fear- + 
1 know you could not think of anything to say which would— 


THE CATASTROPHE. 2°81 


# At least, I only mean your good, and if I err, you will 
orgive me.” 

“Gentle friend! I am used to al] the hardness and vul- 
garity against which a woman has to break her heart and 
apirit, in struggling through the rough world. Now think 
of that. And think whether I can be hurt by anything you 
kind heart impels you to say. No, I shall be very grata 
it cs 

“ Well, this is it, then, my dear. I have not been able to 
avoid seeing your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and 
child, for the last three months. I fear you have scarcely 
made five shillings a week.” 

«¢] have not made that for the last month.” 

«¢ And there seems to be no chance of doing better—with 
your needle, I mean.” 

«¢ Ah, no, no,” 

«And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor 
child! your very shoes are almost gone—there—forgive me— 
I have spoken rudely.” 

“¢ No, no—you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth 
ean be told in the spirit of love.” 

“And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon 
your sick bed—then what will become of your child ?” 

« Alas, God knows! If we both could die —” 

“Yes, if you both could. Death is uo evil at all.” As 
the actress said this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark, 
and her large, luminous eyes glanced aside, and fell upon the 
door—fixed in an intense, suffering, alinost querulous gaze— 
as if of one enduring pain. “It must come abruptly at last,” 
she said, looking up, suddenly. ‘* My dear, have you any 
insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for your- 
self?” 

Startled by the abruptness of the proposition, Zuleime raised 
her eyes to the beautiful, dark, irritated countenance before 
her, without replying. 

«“ You don’t understand me. Well, then, to put it plainer, 
if nothing better at all could be found for you, would you 
absolutely refuse to go upon the stage ?”’ 

Zuleime had understood her very well, and if she still 
hesitated, it was from a reluctance to wcund the spirit of the 
actress. 

“ Do you, then, consider the histrionic profession disreputa- 


282 THE CATASTROPHE. 


ble?” asked Mrs. Knight, with the same suffering, querulous, 
alinost cross expression of the eyes. 

«© No,” said Zuleime, very gently, I do not. Not the 
profession that Mrs. Siddons ennobled. I think-it truly 


“¢The youngest of the sister arts, 
W bere all their beauties blend.’ ” 


“Well, then, my question—Would you object to going on 
the stage yourself ?”” 

“Tam not fit for it,” replied Zuleime, evasively. 

“1 do not know that. I need not tell you that you are 
young and pretty, and singularly graceful—nor that you have 
a very fine voice for singing—these form a very good founda- 
tion. And in elocution, my dear, I would myself become 
your instructress. What say you?” 

“That you are kinder to me than any one has ever been 
since I left home; and that I am very, very grateful,” Zu- 
leime said, very gently. 

“But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow 
it, even for bread,” said the actress, bitterly. 

“¢ No, no—I did not say or mean that, indeed—but I, you 
see, have neither the taste, talent, nor courage requisite !” 

“Why not?” 

«<] was brought up in the privacy of domestic life; in the 
deep seclusion of the country. I have never been used to 
society, much less to publicity, and I am sure, that no matter 
Low well I might be instructed in my part, when I should 
come before an audience, I should forget all about it, and 
half die of shame.” 

“ Ah, I suppose you have no vocation for it. An actress 
forgets her own identity in that of the character she repre- 
sents, and that enables her to go through things she could 
not otherwise endure. But, my dear, I do not see anything 
else you can do: and as for the ‘stage fright,’ as it is called 
among us, you would soon get that off.” 

Zuleime shook her head. 

“‘ My dear, you do not yet know the plan I have for you. 
I never thought—no one would ever think of a sudden grand 
debut for you. Nothing but great genius, strong vocation, 
and perfect self-possession on the part of the debutante, 
would justify such a thing. No—the art must be acquired, 
as Other arts are—slowly. This is the plan I had for you, 
and it entia'y preelndes the possibility of a stage fright, 


THE CATASTROPHR. 283 


since you are gradually imured to it. Do you understand we, 
now ?” | 

“ No, I do not:” 

* Well, then, for instance—and to come to the point! The 
opera season is about to commence, and the manager wishes 
to engage about half-a-dozen young girls as chorus singers. 
Will you be one? The lowest salary they ever give a chorus 
singer is six dollars a week—that is four times as much as 
you ever earned by the tedious needle. Will you consent ? 

Still Zuleime was silent. . 

‘«s After the opera season is over, I make no doukt that 
your youth, beauty and grace, and your very fine voice, will 
secre you a permanent engagement at an advanced salary. 
Will you go with me to the manager to-morrow ?” 

“No,” said Zuleime, “ I should not dare to go upon the 
stage. I could not face an audience.” 

“¢ And you need not face them! You would be in 4 groug 
of young girls, and no one would notice you, except casually 
as a part of the scenery. The attention of the audience is 
taken up with the principal performers. Besides, no onv will 
know who you are. Your name need not appear upon the 
bills. I will take every care of your feelings, if, indeed, you 
ean be sensible of them when hunger and cold are felt.” 

“1 do not like the life,” said Zuleime. ‘I had almost ag 
willingly starve.” 

The actress arose and rung the bell. 

“Oh! it is nothing to me, Mrs. Fairfax. Do as you please. 
{ have no earthly interest to serve in persuading you to this 
step,” she said, with the old, cross, querulous look on her 
haggard face, and in her beautiful dark, gray eyes. 

Bertha came in and cleared away the table. 

Mrs. Knight walked up and down the room in a hasty 
irritated manner. 

‘¢T wish 1 was at work again! I am sick of my.holyday 
already! Since I cannot afford to abandon this hateful art, 
I wish I were always delving at it, and there came no pause 
for self-recollection. I wish I were perpetually Queen 
Katherine, Mrs. Haller, Isabella, Imogene, Lady Macbeth, 
Bianca Fazio, and the others, going incessantly through the 
circle like the earth through the signs of the zodiac. I wish 
] were always somebody else, anybody else than poor Ida 
Kuight.” And she threw herself into a chair, glancing at 
Zuleime with a strained, appealing, accusing look. But the 





THE CATASTROPHE. 


wan fuce of the dying girl, with its hectie flush, smoi2 the 
rock in her heart, and she moved to her side and took her 
hand and said, gently, though with the same tone and look 
of querulous suffering, ‘ It 7s a wretched life! I feel it so-— 
only it is not so bad as starving, and seeing your child starve. 
My dear, it 2s something to me whether I persuade you to do 
this thing or not. I cannot bear to see you suffer so. Your 
necessities weigh upon my heart in addition to my own. And 
really,’ she added, with the same frowning, irritated look, 
“really, I have such a burden of my own, that I grow res- 
tive under a feather of anybody else’s.” 

‘* Then do not take my sorrows on your shoulders, dear 
lady ; I can bear them myself, or die under their weight un- 
complainingly. Do not take my troubles to heart!” said 
Zuleime, gently. 

The actress looked up with a sharp, rebuking glance, say- 
ing— 

“ As if I could help it! You are not sincere when you 
ask me to do so! No, the only way I can get your griefs off 
my heart is to get them off your own. I must get you into 
living circumstances. I must persuade you to go on the stage 
with me. It is not a pleasant profession for a jady, I grant 
you—neither is freezing or starving, ard getting into debt 
and being dunned and rebuffed, pleasant—but—” she added, 
with a look of almost fierce self*assertion and self-defence— 
“neither is it actuaily sinfu/, that I know of. It necessarily 
transgresses no command of God with which I am acquainted. 
One need uot be a heathen because she is an actress. Mrs. 
Siddons was a member in full communion with the Chureh 
of England. The stage has its dangers, I grant you, but you 
may safely pass through them, if you please. J have done so! 
I was not born or brought up to that life, my dear; I was the 
daughter of an English | country curate—then a nursery go- 
verness—then a trav eling companion to an earl’s daughter 
— tnen I accidentally met with my husband, and we married 
from mutual affection. He was a tragedian—thati is the way 
in which I becan.e an actress. Now I follow the histrionie 
Be as the only means of living left open to me. I 

ave seen the dangers—nay, I have fe/é them. But nightly 
—-no matter how utterly wearied out with toil I may have 
been, I have uttered two lines of sincere prayer, that God 
would keep me from falling into deeper sin. And He has 
kept ~ue' Does that surprise you? (tod is the God of the 


THE CATASTROPHE. 985 


\»<dlican as well as of the Pharisee. Who dares excommunt- 
cate me? What child of the Universal Father shall dare to 
say that another is excluded from Eis love and care and pro- 
tection? Verily, the day of Judgment will be a day of 
startling revelations. And many that are first shall be last, 
and the last shall be first.” And then the actress fell into 
silence, and her fine countenance lost that look of captious 
self-defence, and settled into meditative earnestness. 

Zuleime arose to go. Mrs. Knight took her hand, and 
said, gently— 

‘«- My dear, think over what I have proposed to you. If 
you decide to accept my proposition, I will take every pos- 
siblu care of you. You shall be as my own daughter. I 
will shield you from all dangers. I will instruct you 
in your art. And I will give you the freedom of my ward- 
robe. Good-night. Will you kiss me?” 

And she drew Zuleime to her bosom. The poor girl 
pressed her lips to those of the actress, and slipping through 
the door, passed up in the dark and cold to her cwn 
room. 

Ida went to bed, but the poor, generous, irritable woman 
could not sleep for sympathy, for anxiety, and for the sound 
of Zuleime’s racking cough. ‘She will never be able to 
sing much, I am really afraid. But she shall be paid well 
for dressing, and for making her beautiful face and form a 
part of the pageantry—that I am determined upon, if I have 
any influence with the management,” thought Ida, as she 
sank to sleep. 

Rusty and threadbare clothing, broken shoes, cold, hun 
ger, and a suffering child, are forcible arguments, and 
they seconded the persuasions of Ida with tremendous 
power. 

Zuleime yielded, and was carried down the current of fate 
as easily, with as little resistance as the sapling beaten down 
by the rain, uprooted by the wind, and carried: off by the 
flood, is whirled down the stream. 

Tt was the fatal night of the 26th of Decembar, 1811, 
the night of the burning of the Richmond Theatre, a night 
ever to be remembered in the annals of that city, and ever 
to be mourned in the hearts of her citizens. That evening 
more than six hundred lovers of pleasure were gayly pre- 
paring for the theatre; not dreaming, alas’ that they also 
vere doomed ‘o take fearful part in an awful tragedy--a 

18 


9°55 THE CATASTROPHE. 


tragedy unprecedented in the history of the stage. Before 
eight o’clock, more than six hundred persons, from }]leasant 
city homes all around, assembled in the fated building; be- 
fore twelve o’clock, more than one hundred had perished 
horribly in the flames! and the scarcely surviving five hun- 
dred, many wounded, maimed, or burned, all despairingly 
mourning the awful fate of nearest relatives and friends, re- 
turned or were borne back to their desolate homes ! 

That afternoon, unprophetic of doom as any of the others, 
Zuleime and her friend were preparing to go on the stage. 
Zuleime had no part to perform—she was as yet only an 
attache—and was to appear but in one scene, as one of a group 
of villagers. She was engaged in fixing up a peasant dress, 
consisting of a straw hat, black spencer, short gray skirt, 
and striped stockings. Mrs. Knight was, as usual, doing two 
things at once—arranging her costume and studying her part. 
But the eyes of Ida often wandered towards Zuleime, as she 
neard that hacking, racking cough, and she noticed sith pain 
the waning face. Yes! within a few days even, the thin 
face had become perceptibly thinner, and the flushed cheek 
burned with a darker crimson. ‘‘ And she will wake a sorry 
looking peasant,” thought Ida; “a very sorry peasant, with 
that delicate, spiritual, almost eerial face and form of hers. 
How absurdly inappropriate are most of the affairs we get 
up! Truly, our art is in the rear of all others. Now, this 
evening, all go on as villagers—vuigar and refined—all 
reduced to one level. Those coarse, brawny Miss Butchers, 
and this fragile, delicate Zuleime, all peasants—very well 
for the Miss Butchers, but for Zuleiue! To-morrow evening 
all go on as faries; excellent well for this erial Zuleime, but 
for the Miss Butchers! Well, our notions are fanciful as 
arbitrary—and there may be peasants who have delicate, 
white, semi-transparent fingers, and there may be faries with 
large, flat feet, and great red hands, for aught we know.” 
While Mrs. Knight silently cogitated, and covered her white 
satin shoes anew, and studied her part, Zuleime worked on 
also in silence, but too despairing, too exhausted, even 
to think of the wayward fate which had brought her to this 
pass. 

At about sunset their preparations were completed. Ida, 
as usual, rang for her cup of coffee and her errand boy, and 
sacked up and sent away the costume for the evening. Then 
ehe put her own little girl and Zuleime’s child to sicep to 


THE CATASTROPHE. 287 


gether in her bed, and got Bertha to promise to look in, in 
the course of the evening, and see that all was safe. And 
then poor Ida carefully wrapped Zuleime up in her own man- 
tilla, and wound her own furs around her neck, saying, in 
answer to all expostulation— 

‘Never mind me, my dear! Tve got no cough. Hag: 
gard as I look, I’m whit-leather.! You must take care of 
your poor little self.” 

And then they left the house, walking briskly through 
the biting air, and crunching the crusted snow under their 
quick footsteps. Though but little after sunset, owing to 
the heavy clouds, it was almost dark when they hurried 
along the streets. There was the usual number of foot-pas- 
sengers abroad, and once, as the slight figure of a man in a 
military cloak swiftly hurried past, Mrs. Knight felt her arm 
suddenly grasped with spasmodic force by her companion, 
and turning around, she saw the face of Zuleime deadly 

ale. 

“Why, what is the matter, my dear child ?” 

“ Nothing, nothing!” said Zuleime; ‘let us hurry on.” 

“But you are trembling like an- aspen leaf! You have 
walked too far—you are not strong enough for this evening’s 
work; let me take you home again.” 

“No, no, no, no! Iet’s go on!” 

“Why, Zuleime—” 

«Oh, it is nothing—nothing when you hear it! I—I felt 
the presence of one long dead! It was weak nerves, or fancy, 
or perhaps the prescience of one on the confines of the unseen 
world. Jet us hasten on.’ 

They hurried along. In fe meantime, he who had passed 
them, the slight man in the military cloak, walked on down 
the square, suddenly stopped, muttered to himself, “ Absurd! 
impossible !”? then went on again, again stopped, as by an 
irresistible impulse, turned and rapidly retraced his steps, 
after the two ladies in black, overtook them, was close be- 
hind them, but not placing any confidence in what he termed 
his own wild thoughts, he dared not accost or peep under the 
honnets of two reserved and closely veiled women. But he 
kept them in sight until he saw them enter the side door of 
the theatre. Then he asked a door-keeper— 

<¢ Who are those 2” 

«¢Twe of the ladies attached to the theatre,” replied the 
mar 


£83 THE CATASTROPHE. 


«Foo. that I was!” exclaimed Frank Fairfax, as he 
turned away. 

Captain Fairfax had reached Richmond that day at noon- 
too late, by half a day, for the stage to L————, whither he 
would have gone, if possible, on the wings of the wind. His 
mother, warned by the newspapers, had been daily expecting 
lis arrival, and was prepared to receive him when he pre- 
sented himself. He had spent the whole afternoon with her 
at Fairview House, and in the evening had walked out to 
book his place in the next day’s stage for L —. It was 
when hurrying along on that errand, that he passed so near 
his wife, electrifying her with his unknown presence, and 
being himself drawn to follow, and to hover near her all the 
evening. For when he had turned from the theatre, and 
hurried on and reached the stage office and secured his place, 
finding out that the coach did not start till three o’clock the 
next morning, he said to himself— 

‘‘ How on earth shall I contrive to forget some of these 
miserable hours that must intervene before I can fly to my 
wife? My mother’s ill-health obliges her to retire early to 
bed. If I go back to Fairview House, I shall have the whole 
mansion to myself. I will even go to the theatre, and see 
if I can find ont among the women there the particular 
one whose air and gait reminded me so strongly of my Zu- 
leime.” 

And so to the theatre he went. It was quite early, and 
he was fortunate in securing a seat in the centre of the first 
row of boxes, immediately in front of the stage. In the mean- 
time, Zuleime had been conducted by Mrs. Knight into the 
theatre, and introduced into the common dressing-room of 
the stock actresses. This was a large room, with a broad 
shelf or dresser running around three sides of the walls, and 
about four feet from the floor. This served as bureaus, 
dressing-tables, and wash-stands for nine women, each of the 
three sides being occupied by three, who equally divided the » 
shelf, each one having her hand-boxes under the shelf, and 
her looking-glass on top of it, leaning against the wall, 
and her wash-basin, jars of rouge, boxes of powder, pots of 
pomatum, ete., standing around it. On introducing her 
companion into this apartment, Mrs. Knight said— 

«¢ All women belonging to the theatre use this as a come 
mon dressing-room, except the ballet girls, who have one to 





THE CATASTROPHE. 285 


themselves, and the stars, who have separate and well fur- 
nished rooms.” 

About half a dozen women were present now, each before 
her own glass, with her own tallow candle, making her 
toilet. 

“ Who’s that, Knight, that you’ve got there?” asked s 
coarse-featured, black-eyed girl, who always played the 
hoyden, or the wit, and fondly believed herself a proficient 
in the Rosalind and Beatrice line. I say, Knight! is that 
the young ‘lady? ” she repeated, turning around with a 
little wad of raw cotton, dipped in carmine, between her 
finger and thumb, and exhibiting a face in process of being 
rejuvenated—namely, with one young and blooming cheek, 
and one prematurely old and sallow. 

“Yes, this is the young lady, Barry,” said Mrs. Knight, 
very gravely, as she led her protégé off to her >wn corner of 
the common dresser. 

‘¢] think she might have sent her down with the ballet 
girls, as she is really one of them,” grumbled a large, im- 
portant looking female, arranging a huge turban and curls 
upon her head, at the farther end of the room. Two new 
ideas besides that of the common dressing-room and the dress- 
ing shelf in general, Zuleime had got—namely, first, that there 
really was some very lofty notions of rank and exclusiveness 
even among the members of the stock company of a second 
rate theatre—secondly, that they really, after all, did not 
differ much in that or any other respect from people she had 
met in very high society, except, indeed, that they nad the 
odious habit of calling each other “ Knight’ or * Barry,” 
as men do, without a prefix of any sort. 

Mrs, Knight dressed herself for her part, as she was to 
appear in the early scene in the play, and then gave the use 
of her toilet nook to Zuleime. But the cold walk through 
the evening air, and the standing in the chilly dressing-room. 
had so increased her cough, that Mrs. Knight went out and 
sent a call-boy for opium, and administered a dose. It was 

der the influence of that stupefier that Zuleime, leaning 
on th: arm of Mrs. Knight, entered that terra-incognita, the 
green-room. It was a ‘long room, papered, curtained, car- 
peted, furnished with sofas and easy-chairs, and warmed by 
a fine coal fire—upon the whole it differed in no other ree 
spect than its motley crowd, from a large family parlor. 
Mra. Knight conducted her to a corner of the sofa nearest 


290 THE CATASTROPHE. 


the fire, and leaving her sitting there, obeyed the call-boy’s 
summons, and went upon the stage. Composed into a dreamy 
state by the opium, Zuleime sat there while the strange 
scene, with its fantastical crowd, passed before her like the 
phantasmagoria of a midnight dream. And all this time 
Frank sat in the centre box of the front row, not seeing the 
play enacting before him—not thinking of it, only seeing the 
turnpike road to L——-—. Only thinking of the dearest 
girl in the world, whom he should meet at the end of his 
journey. Paper walls again ! 

Zuleime remained in the corner of the sofa near the fire 
in the green-room, not thinking at all, not even dreaming, 
only conscious in a vague dreamy way, that a strange vision, 
changing and. changing like figures in the kaleidoscope, was 
passing before her. She was scarcely aroused by Mrs. 
Knight’s gentle voice, saying in her ear— 

“Come, my dear, it is time for you to go on now. Come, 
lon’t be afraid, Bless you, you are nobody, you know. No 
one will look at you. You will be only one of a group that 
forms a sort of back-ground to the scene. Come, I will go 
with you to the side entrance, where the others stand.” 

Zuleime obeyed mechanically, and was led, between vari- 
sus walls of canvas, to a side entrance, at which were 
grouped a number of persons in villagers’ costume. 

“‘ There, just go on with the crowd, and stand there , that 
is all you have to do,” whispered Mrs. Knight, as she left 
her. . 

And at the same moment the group moved on, carrying 
the somnolent Zuleime with them, and she found herseif in a 
dazzling glare of light, and heard the deafening rant of a 
stentorian lunged actor near her, and grew painfully con- 
scious of the many hundred eyes upon the scene, upon her- 
self, perhaps—and dared not raise her eyes an instant from 
the floor, upon which, with a deeply burning cheek, they 
were fixed. But suddenly an attraction—a fatality—I know 
not what—but something stronger than her fear, stronger 
than her will, drew her glance up to. the centre box of the 
front row, and her eyes met Frank’s eyes. Yes, there he 
sat, gazing at her, astonished, fixed, spell-bound as by a 
night-mare, without the power of moving or waking. she! 
she tuo, gazed for a moment. She was not astonished at 
seeing him there, any more than she would have been aston- 
whed at ds eam*»g of secing him anywhere. It was all like 


THE CATASTROPHE. 291 


& wild dream, everything! It seemed not unnatural that he 
should form a part of it.- Only to her weakened and half 
stupefied brain, the last, nearest event was the most distinct 
—and so, strangely, she did not think of his death or life, 
but only of the reproach she had brought upon Aim, her 
prond Frank, in appearing there! and covering her face with 
both hands, she sank to her knees upon the floor. 

It was lucky the drop-curtain fell just then. It was lucky 
the audience took that by-scene for a part of the play. But 
to Zuleime it was still like a fever-dream, from which she 
tried to wake. Like a dream the drop-curtain had rolled 
down. But not like a dream was the rough seizure of her 
arm by a girl who set her upon her feet, and said, in a not 
unfriendly tone— 

«What did you do that for? That warn’t a part of your 

art.” , 
; «< |.—[—have,” beyan Zuleime, passing her hand back and 
forth across her forehead, “I have been taking opium to stop 
my cough. J—never was used to it, and I think it has he- 
wildered me a little ; don’t you think so?” 

“T think something has! Wake up, and try to listen to 
what is goingon. Mr. is going to sing now. Come 
off.” 

As the gir: led her away between the walls of canvas, 
one of th se msignificant incidents occurred, upon which 
nevertheless tne fate of hundreds sometimes hang. Away 
among the back scenes through which they passed to reach 
the green-room, there was a chandelier hanging flaring in the 
draught. A boy seeemed busy with it. 

“‘ Hoist it up higher, sir, why don’t you?’ exclaimed one 
of the plavers, who happened to come up. 

“If J do, it will set fire to the scenes,” replied the boy. 

“¢ Coufound your insolence, do you think I would give you 
the order, if there were the least danger! Do as you are 
directed, sir.” 

The boy obeyed ; and the scenery instantly took fire. The 
shandelier was hastily drawn down; the alarm was given in 
ilie rear of the stage, and a scene shifter directed to cut the 
cords by which the combustible material was suspended. But 
the man became pauic-struck and fled. 

The performers and their assistants in vain sought to teus 
town the scenery. The canvas was covered with a resinowa 
composition, aru the draught of wind was strong ;-and Zu 





393 THE CATASTROPHE. 


leime and her companion were swiftly encircled by walls of 
blazing canvas. The strong girl, terror-strick2n, left her 
weak companion and fled. And the poor invalid, forgotten 
by all in the terror and confusion, sank down oy erpowered, 
suffocated by the heat and smoke. All this had happened 
m less than three minutes from the raising of the chandelier 
And at this-time one of the performers was playing neat 
the orchestra, and the greater part of the stage, with its ap- 
palling danger, was fatally concealed from the audience by 
the curtain. The flames spread with the rapidity of light- 
ning; and the first notice the audience had of their danger, 
was the fire falling from the ceiling upon the head of the 
performer Even then many supposed it to be a part of the 
play, and were for a short time restrained from flight by a 
cry from the stage that there was no danger. But soon the 
fire flashed in every part of the house with a rapidity hor- 
rible and appalling. Then terror seized upon the hearts of 
all, and the audience broke up in confusion. Those in the 
pit escaped by the pit entrance, and were every one saved, 
Those in the boxes, who, had they known it, might at firs: 
have escaped by way of the pit, all turned and hurried to- 
wards the only door of egress into the lobby. This doot 
was unfortunately hung to open on the inside. And this 
circumstance was fatally overlooked by the frenzied crowd. 
who pressed and pressed against the door, trying to push ik 
open, but really keeping it fast closed. The fire advances 
upon them, filling the house with suffocating smoke, and with 
flame that seized the clothing of those behind, goading them 
horribly to still more frantic pressure upon those before 
The most frightful uproar ensued ; women shricking, pray- 
ing—men groaning, expostulating ; all crowding one upok 
another, or rather hundreds upon hundreds, and all pressing 
vowards the door that would not yield. The pit was now 2 
lake of fire, darting out huge tongues of flame that woune 
themselves around the forms of the hindmost, who fel: 
shriveled into the blaze. Then arose cries of horror, an< 
guish and despair—children crying for lost parents, and pa- 
rents calling in agony upon the names of missing children— 
for in the fierce pushing and struggling for life, parties got 
separated and families divided—children forced from the 
parents, women from their protectors, and the weaker un- 
consciously thrown down and trampled to death by the strong. 
Many, half roasted, dropped into the burning pit; many 


fHE CATASTROPHE. 293 


with their garments in flames, maddened by pain and terror, 
threw thersselves headlong from the windows, and met an- 
other death. Many even chanced to save their lives in that 
way at the cost of broken limbs. And at last the doof 
yielded ; and as many as possible escaped that way; but to 
what a life, alas! darkened forever by the memory of dearest 
relatives and friends who perished in the,fire. The whole 
building was now in flames. In less than an hour all was 
over. Naught remained but a heap of smoking ruins ; and 
around them the agonized crowd of those who lived and 
raved—-and around these again, an awe-sruck, mournirg 
sity. 


994 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


a 
‘SIN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


She sleeps: her breathings are not heara 
In palace chambers far apart, 
The fragrant tresses are not stirred 
That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps: on either side upswells 
The downy pillow lightly prest ; 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but only dwells 
A perfect form in perfect rest. —TENNYSON 


Tuk spell that bound Captain Fairfax, when he recognized 
his wife upon the stage, was broken by the fall of the drop 
curtain. He instantly left the boxes and hastened around 
behind the scenes. After many bafiled inquiries, and many 
misdirections, he prosecuted his search alone, and at length 
found her prostrate form. The wind had blown the smoke 
and flame in another direction, and she lay there uninjured, 
though insensible, and in extremity of danger. He raised 
her, threw his cloak around her, ran with her into the fresh 
air, called a hackney coach, placed her in it, jumped in and 
took his seat by her side, drew her insensible form within his 
arms, upon his bosom, and directed the coachman to drive 
rapidly to Fairview House. As they passed swiftly through 
che streets, the cry of “ Fire! fire! fire!” rung through the 
air, but he scarcely heard it. The rushing of crowds of 
people in the opposite direction to that in which they were 
driving, frequently impeded the progress of the carriage, but 
he scarcely knew it. All his senses, all his thoughts, all his 
emotions were absorbed in the gentle form that lay swooning 
pn his bosom. And “Oh! how thin she is! how thin, good 
Ileaven!”? he groaned many times, as he held his arm around 
the fragile waist, or felt the emaciated arm and hand, or 
pressed his cheek against the wan face. ‘ How thin she is, 
good Heaven, how thin! Is this illness? Llness unto death, 
perhaps! Drive fast, coachman! Fast!” He longed to lay 
ber at rest upon her bed, that he might perchance silence his 
anxiety And- “Taster, coachman' Faster '’’ he continued 


“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 295 


to ery, whenever the thickening crowd arrested the progress 
of the carriage. 

At length they reached Fairview House. He lifted her 
out and_bore her into the hall. His mother had retired to 
rest long since; but he rang the bell violently, and said, to 
the astonished servants, who came at the summons— 

“6 (Fo instantly and prepare a room for my wife. I have 
but just saved her from the burning theatre!”’ The wonder- 
struck maids hurried toobcy. Stop! Don’t disturb your 
mistress, on your lives,” he said, and with this warning, dis- 
missed them. To one of the men present, he exclaimed, 
* Run instantly to Doctor Cummings, and ask him to hurry 
bither.” 

The man disappeared to obey. And during the issuing of 
these orders, Frank Fairfax was sitting on the sofa, sustain- 
ing the fainting form of his wife with one arm, while with 
the other hand he unlaced the velvet bodice. Presently one 
of the maids returned and announced that the room was 
ready. And Frank raised and carried his precious burden 
up stairs, into a pleasant front chamber, and laid her on a 
bed. Then, with the assistance of one of the women, he got 
off the stage dress, and supplied its place with one of his 
mother’s white wrappers, brought for the purpose by one of 
the maids. 

He had scarcely done this, when the chamber door opeued, 
and old Mrs. Fairfax entered, roused up by the noise in and 
outside the house. She came in, wrapped in a flannel dress- 
ing-gown, and saying, anxiously— 

“¢ My dear Frank! they tell me that the Richmond The- 
atre is on fire. I amso grateful that you are not there. Ah 
what is this? Who is that?” she asked, perceiving the forin 

£ Zuleime upon the bed, and advancing towards it. ‘Some 
sufferer you have saved from the fire, my dear Frank? God 
bless your brave, kind heart, my dear boy. But you should 
not have brought her in here—or you should not be here 
yourself. Retire, and leave the lady to the care of myself 
and my women,” concluded the lady, gravely. 

‘‘ My dearest mother, yes! She isa sufferer I have saved from 
the fire! a most beloved sufferer! my wife! my wife! Dear- 
est mother, I cannot leave her! Ihave a right to stay here.” 

Itere followed a wild, hasty disclosure of his iniprudent 
marriage, kept secret ur to that moment. And then amid 
\he grief and sur-rise of Mrs. Fairfax, he aiso learned the 


296 “STN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


© 
fact of Mr. Clifton’s death, and of Zuleime’s disappearance 
and suspected suicide. In bitter self-reproach, Frank had 
made his confession—in deepest sorrow, he heard his mother’s 
revelations. 

‘¢ How much she must have suffered! Good Heaven! how 
much she must have suffered! he exclaimed. Then almost 
madly he cried, *¢ Mother! look at her! Look at her! Oh, 
tell me, do you think she can live ?” 

Mrs. Fairfax had been all this time chafing her temples 
with cologne, while the two maids rubbed her hands and feet. 
But up to this instant she had given no signs of recovery, 
or of consciousness. And the old lady shook her head 
mournfully, and plunged Frank into deeper despair. They 
persevered in their efforts for half an hour longer, and then 
she sighed and opened her eyes. Her husband was bending 
over her. She met his eyes, and smiled faintly in recogni- 
tion, without astonishment, and without joy—indeed she was 
too feeble for either—and murmuring, ‘ Dearest Frank,” 
she sank away again, fainting, they supposed, until her low 
breathing revealed that she slept the sleep of utter prostra- 
tion. And how changed was now that countenance. The 
look of weariness, care and sorrow had vanished, and the 
sweet, wan face wore the easy, confiding air of infancy ; and 
even in sleep, she must have felt the shelter of protecting love 
around her, for often with closed eyes she smiled, as in de- 
lighted visions! . All night they watched beside her bed while 
she slept. Inthe morning the doctor arrived. He had been 
absent all night, by the couch of one who had been severely 
burned at the theatre, and that accounted for his failure to 
come before morning ; now, however, he stood beside the 
patient with grave and thoughtful brow. 

“ Doctor, for Heaven’s sake give me some hope of her 
‘Yell me something about her, at least! Is she ill ?”’ 

«¢ She is very ill,” replied the physician. 

“TI cannot believe it! I will not believe it! See how 
sweetly she sleeps! how comfortably! how free from suffer- 
ing !” 

“‘ Yes—but, my dear Captain Fairfax, there would be more 
hope if there were more suffering—however, the case may be 
much more favorable than it appears to me now; I cannot 
fully judge of it until she wakes.” 

«¢ Allow me to arouse her, then! Nay, I wish to do it 
T have not spoker to her yet! Let me wake her now” 


“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 297 


« By no means! It might prove fatal. Indeed, you must 
be very careful. Her life hangs by a thread. Sleep will do 
her more good now than anything else. When she awakes 

naturally, you may send for me at once.” And so saying, 
the doctor took leave, without even writing a prescription. 

Soon after he left the house she vopened her eyes again, 

and seeing Frank, smiled faintly, and murmured— 

' 6 My own—my dearest—dearest husband.” And in an 
instant her senses seemed swallowed up again in sleep, which 
lasted half an hour, at the end of which she awoke again, and 
looked around in uneasiness, and breathed, half aloud,— 
© My child—my baby——my little Fan—” and then sank away 
again, as if she were too feeble to retain her hold on con- 
sciousness. 

‘¢What is she talking about, dear mother?” inquired 
Frank, in the extremity of anxiety, when he heard her words. 

Mrs. Fairfax shook her head, and said she did not know. 
But the woman who waited in the chamber came forward, 
and said that if her mistress would excuse her interfering, 
she would tell them what the young lady meant. 

«¢ Speak on, then, at once, in the name of the Lord!” ex- 
claimed Frank, impatiently. 

Mrs. Fairfax endorsed his order. And then the woman 
informed her mistress that she had known the sick young lady 
all the winter by sight—that she had been there at the house 
to ask for sewing—that she took in sewing for a living—that 
she lodged at the cabinet-maker’ s, over the way—and that. 
she had a little girl almost two years old, who was no doubt 
at the cabinet-maker’s now, which she supposed was what had 
made the mother look around, and inquire so anxiously. 

The woman’s story was scarcely over before Captain Fair- 
fax seized his hat, and hurried from the room. As soon as 
he was gone, Mrs. Fairfax called the woman up before her, 
and said— 

“ Nelly, you heard your master tell me of his marriage 
with this young lady ?” 

“Yes, madam.” 

“IT need nct tell you that it is my will that there be no 
kitchen gossip about this matter: This young lady—once 
Miss Zuleime Clifton, is now, and has been for nearly three 
years past, Mrs. Francis Fairfax, the wife of my son, and is 
also your own young mistress. You understand ?” 

¢ Yes, madam.” 


298 SrN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


“Then let there be no idle conversation about this mar- 
riage, if you would avoid my severest displeasure.” 

Farther colloquy was arrested by the hurried entrance of 
Captain Fairfax, bringing his little wee girl in his arms. Mrs 
Fairfax immediately arose to take her from him, but the 
child’s quick eyes had recognized her mother lying on the 
ped, and she began to clap her hands and call— 

“ Mamma! mamma !” 

Frank held her closely, and tried to still her joyful, eager 
cries, but the magical sound of her child’s voice had already 
awakened the sleeper, and she opened her eyes, and seeing 
the babe in its father’s arms, smiled a feeble smile of content, 
and fel] away again into oblivion. 

Mrs. Fairfax had the doctor summoned again, and told him 
that if he wished to see her daughter-in-law awake, he must 
remain at her bedside, for that she only awoke to relapse 
instantly into slumber. 

The physician then took his seat by the bedside of his 
patient, and requested all except a maid-servant to leave the - 
chamber. 

Mrs. Fairfax and Frank went out, taking the little girl with 
them, and leaving the doctor with the invalid. 

After the lapse of an hour, the physician came out and 
went down stairs. Captain “airfax was waiting for him in 
the hall, and drew him into the parlor, anxiously requesting 
to know his-opinion. Perhaps he was really sanguine, and 
hoped the doctor’s verdict might set his fears at rest. At 
any rate he insisted upon knowing the precise state of the 
case. The doctor gravely motioned him to sit down, and then 
took a seat himself. He said that his patient was not sinking 
so much under any local disease as under a general atrophy, 
for which, considering the circumstances, he could not possibly 
account—for, if he had met precisely such a ease in the very 
lowest walks of life, he should at once have declared that the 
patient had been brought to this state by the want of proper 
and sufficient food—that, in short, she was dying of a slow 
starvation. A deep groan broke from the lips of Francis 
Fairfax, and he started up, covered his face with his hands, — 
and walked the floor in rapid strides. Suddenly he stopped 
before the physician, with a countenance convulsed with grief 
and remorse, with all pride and hesitation gone, and exclaim- 
ed, in thrilling tones— 

«“ Tctor! sunpose her case—my wife’s case had been as 


“TN PALACE CHAMBERS.” BON 


you would have surmised, finding it any where else ?—sup- 
pose that for months past she has been starving.—Great God ' 
—starving !—Now that the cause of this utter failure of the 
vital powers is removed—now that she has every thing that 
wealth, that the most devoted affection can give her, may she 
uot recruit and Jive? Oh! tell me?” 

The physician answered sternly- - 

“1 do not know, sir! This tampering with the laws of 
life—this pursuing it to the very edge of death is not safe. 
Is she inclined to take food at all ?”’ 

‘© No—only a little gruel, and that mechanically, without 
appetite.” 

“¢ Hxactly—a few days fasting makes one ravenous, but a 
Jong, partial starvation so exhausts the victim, that he loses 
all inclination for food, as well as all power to assimilate it.” 
The doctor spoke severely. 

“Sir! I forgive your sternness and your evident suspi- 
cions, perhaps they are partially just. If they were other- 
wise, God knows I am so stricken that I have scarcely man- 
hood enough left to resent them—but oh! tell me—do not 
evade the question. Can she be restored ? and how ?” 

“Captain Fairfax, I told you that she was sinking, not so 
much under any local disorder as under general atrophy— 
and yet she fas a local disease superinduced by this same 
slow starvation. Upon examination by the stethoscope, I 
find tubercles forming upon the left lung. There is also 
morbid action of the heart. You know how it is with phthisis' 
With proper care, and under favorable circumstances, the 
patient may live for years, perhaps for many years, and die 
at length in old age of something else.” 

“Oh, no care, no pains—nothing that money—nuthing 
that love ean do, shall be wanting! There is hope ?”’ 

«<1 dare not say there is much hope in this instance. This 
atrophy is a very unfavorable thing—all our hope is in being 
able to save the digestive functions. I have left a preserip- 
tion, with written directions, above stairs.”” - The doctor 
took his hat, and saying that he would see the invalid again 
in the afternoon, departed. 

« All alike! all alike! They sway from right to left. 
raising one’s hopes, and then rousing their fears! He lies! 
he lies!’ It is not so! she is in no danger! Great God 
she must not die! she shall not!” So unjustly, wildly, sin- 
fully Frank Fairfax talk2d. walking distractedly up and 


AD “SIN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


down the floor, convulsed by grief, remorse and fear fo 
her he loved so strongly, and felt he had wronged so greatly. 
He dared not seek her bedside now in his excited state—-he 
sushed into his library, locked the door, and gave himself up 
to all the power of remorse. 

In the afternoon he sought the sick room again. And the 
deep, sweet peace that pervaded the apartment fell like a 
soothing spell upon his excited nerves. The front windows 
were open, for the day was very fine, and the fresh air and the 
sunshine came in together, with the cheerful view of the 
expanse of water, and the wooded hills across James River. 
The coolness of the air was sufficiently tempered by a glow- 
ing coal fire in the grate. Zuleime lay raised up with pillows 
on the bed, and upon the counterpane by her sat her little 
girl. The face of the youthful mether seemed as soft, as 
feeble, and as free of care and sorrow as that of the infant 
herself. On seeing Frank enter, she smiled a gentle, pleased, 
childish smile, and feebly moved her hand towards him. He 
went to her, at first successfully repressing all his strong 
emotions, and kissed her very gently, but then sank upon 
his knees, and dropping his face upon her hand, burst into 
tears, and wept passionately. Her other hand wandered 
playfully through his curls, and she said, gently— 

“ Don’t weep, Frank, please don’t—indeed I am happy- 
it is so nice to be here—don’t weep. 

But when men weep and sob, it is no passing shower, like 
the easily shed tears of women, but a great gust, shaking all 
the nature. So it was a long time before Frank mastered 
his emotion. When he recovered his composure, and arose 
and sat by her side and looked at her, he found that the 
hectic fever burned crimson on her cheeks, and that her 
brilliant eyes wandered about deliriously. And he knew 
that he had harmed her again. And soon she began to talk 
at random, babbling childishly, delightfully, about White 
Cliffs, and the forest walks, and the garden. And she ad- 
dressed her father and sister, as if they were present. An4 
very lovingly she spoke to Catherine ; or, coming nearer to 
the present moment, talked with Ida about her feminine 
shrinking from appearing upon the stage. Frank listenad in 
the deepest trouble, and in the wandering of her mind he 
learned much that had transpired at White Cliffs, a great deal 
that had occurred since her flight thence, and ail that he 
ought to have known. 


“TN PALACK CHAMBERS.” sia} 8 


When the physician arrived in the evening, he instituted 
strict inquiries, and discovered the cause of her high fever. 
Then he rebuked the indiscretion of her friends, and leaving 
fresh prescriptions, with peremptory orders that the deepest 
quiet should be preserved, departed. Her fever unabated 
raged all night. In the morning it went off. 

Captain Fairfax would not permit himself to enter her 
room again until he had obtained the power of perfect self- 
control. At about eleven o’clock he went in. The crimson 
curtains of the windows were drawn aside, and the room was 
light and cheerful. The white muslin drapery of the bedstead 
was festooned, and revealed the fair invalid reclining there, 
wan, placid, child-like as ever. She welcomed her husband 
with the same soft, faint smile.- And he went and sat by her 
side, and crushing down all strong emotions, took her hand, 
and spoke to her calmly and pleasantly, inquiring how she 
felt. 

“So well—it is so nice to be here,” she answered simply. 
And she lay there looking at him contentedly, smiling softly, 
answering vaguely when he spoke to her; but never asking 
any question ; or making any comment; or volunteering any 
epeech whatever. This pained him more than all—for he 
knew that mind as well as body was sinking —lapsing away 
into a sort of dreamy, happy fatuity. And all attempts to 
rouse her from that state only threw her into fever, and 
often into delirium. 

One day, with a view to interest without exiting her, he 
inquired— 

<< Dearest, is there any one you would like to see 

6c Wes Ida” she said. 

“And who is Ida, love?” asked Frank, very cautiously 
and gently, for he felt as if he were running the risk of 
hurting her again. 

Tda! La! don’t you know? She was so yood to me,” 
she replied, with a pitying smile. 

Captain Fairfax left the room, and at a venture went over 
to inquire at the cabinet-maker’s. And he soon returned, 
accompanied by Mrs. Knight. Zuleime received her visitcr 
without any emotion whatever ; smiling gently, and holding 
out her hand, and afterwards lying and silently and pleasantly 
watching her as she sat by the bed. And when she arose to 
taka leave, she put up her lips for a kiss. Poor Ida pressed 

19 . 


802 “YN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


those lips very gently, and then quietly left the room: but 
as soon as she had passed the door, burst into tear.. 

Kvery day Zuleime’s mind flowed away. Every day sho 
became more infantile in weakness and simplicity. One day 
she made known a wish—the only one she had ever volun- 
tarily expressed. It was affecting from its utter childishness, 

‘‘Dear Frank, you and your mother are rich. I want 
you to bring Ida and her child home to live here, so that she 
may not have to go on the stage any more.” She reverted 
to this subject so frequently, repeating this, the only wish 
she had ever expressed, so often and earnestly, that her hus- 
band felt strongly inclined to gratify her desire, strange as 
it really was. He consulted his mother, and they concluded 
that it might be done, in a. measure. Then they told her 
that it should be as she wished; that Ida and her child should 
come and live with them, if she would. Captain Fairfax 
went again to the cabinet-maker’s, saw the poor actress, and 
told her that his wife needed a female companion to sit with 
her a portion of the day, and that she would hear of no one 
for the post but her old friend, Mrs. Knight, if Mrs. Knight 
would come and name her own salary. And when he had 
let slip that last word, he turned away his face with his fcre- 
head burning under the astonished, indignant gaze of those 
proud, dark ¢ eyes of Ida’s, as she said— 

“‘ Captain Fairfax, I receive a ‘ salary’ in the regular liae 
of my profession, when I am engaged iu it; as Captam 
Fairfax also receives pay for his military services—but as he 
would spurn all offers of pecuniary rewuneration for atten- 
tions to a wounded comrade, so should I decline all compen- 
sation for attentions to a sick neighbor; and I am most 
surprised that you should have made such a propose] to me.” 

So was Captain Fairfax himself really surprised that he 
should have been betrayed into such an error, as to forget 
that the very profession of the poor tragic actress really fos- 
tered a morbid pride. Her phrases might have been a little 
stilted after the manner of the stage, but the sentiments were 
really true and high, and worthy of all consideration. So Cap- 
tain Fairfax apologized, as he best could, and arose to take 
his leave. Then she said— 

“Do not quite misunderstand me. Iam very anxious to 
do all in my power to serve Mrs. Fairfax, for I love her 
dearly! I am willing to devote all my time. night and day, 
to her serv'ce, for the affection I bear her. And I can doit 


“SIN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 803 


now; for since the burning of the theatre I have been diss 
engaged.” 

Captain Fairfax replied by expressing his grateful ac- 
knowledgments of her kindness, and begging her to come 
over frequently to see his wife. Then he took leave indeed 
and returned home, with the determination to ask his mother 
to go and invite Mrs. Knight to conse and spend a few weeks 
with her friend at Fairview House. Old Mrs. Fairfax had 
quite a struggle with her Virginian pride and prejudices, be- 
fore she could make up her mind to ask an actress to become 
her guest, but benevolence conquered, and as whatever she 
once resolved upon doing she did graciously and gracefully, 
she called upon Mrs. Knight, and gave her the invitation ia 
a manner that insured its acceptance. Ida, with her little 
girl, came over the next day. And the old lady felt fully 
rewarded for her self-conquest, when she saw the smile of 
childish delight with which the gentle patient greeted her 
poor friend. 

«See, Ida, murmured Zuleime, as her visitor seated her- 
self at the bedside, ‘* see, Ida, we are both now in the niece 
house we used to look at so longingly from our poor, back 
windows.” She paused from weakness, and then said, ‘I 
used to call it my Heaven, you know! Ah, I did not know 
it was really my Heaven. I did not know Frank had ever 
lived here—how strange!” She paused again, but this time 
from thought, as well as from exhaustion, and then she took 
breath and said again, ‘¢ I never could make it out clearly 
and it makes my head ache to try. But see, dear Ida. Look 
at the crimson window-curtains—don’t you know they are 
the very same crimson curtains that used to throw the warm, 
red glow across the snow, when we used to sit at the back 
window and watch them, and almost envy the people that 
lived here 2” 

“Yes, I know, but do not talk too much, darling.” 

“T won’t—but it is so strange. There, look through the 
windows, you ean see our little, narrow, pinched, back win- 
dows, with their check curtains, as plainly from here, as we 
used to see these from there. We did not think we should 
ever get here to live, did we ?—how strange !” 

Her talk, rambling as it was, revealed one hopeful fact- 
that her mind was at length waking up. Frank saw it with 
joy. Dvyy by day, from this time, her intellect seemed te 


304 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


clear and strengthen. Frank spoke of this to the doctor, 
who heard him with great gravity, and without comment. 

As winter advanced towards spring, her mind “ brightened 
more and more towards the perfect day.” She had gleaned, 
partly from scraps of speech carelessly dropped, and partly 
by inquiry, the history of Frank’s captivity among the Shos- 
honowas, that first originated the report of his death—and 
she was very gradually brought to understand the true posi- 
tion of affairs—so gradually through so many weeks, that 
the knowledge may be said rather to have slowly grown upon 
her. But as her mind cleared and strengthened, her heart 
became saddened and depressed. She understood too much 
now for her happiness. She no longer lay and watched her 
husband with a delighted smile as he sat beside her bed— 
no, but rather with a look of earnest, mournful love. Well 
she might. Frank was sad enough—he thought his heart 
was breaking. 

One day, while lying propped up by pillows, she heard the 
aame of Mrs. Georgia Clifton mentioned. 

“Ts she in the city ?” inquired she. 

“ Yes, love,” replied her husband. 

“Send for her to come and see me—lI must see her.” 

Captain Fairfax arose and left the room imniediately, and 
instead of sending a servant, went himself to bring Mrs. 
Georgia. For so great was his desire to gratify promptly 
every wish of his loved one’s heart, that he seldom trusted 
the execution of them to any but himself, lest they should 
fail or be delayed. It was well in this instance, at least, 
that he went in person. A servant could not have effected 
the purpose. The conscience-stricken Georgia would not 
have ventured to come. Even when unannounced, by rea- 
son of his haste, Captain Fairfax entered her parlor, the 
beauty turned deadly pale, under the fear of detected guilt. 
But when she saw his calm, kind manner, and heard him en- 
treat, as a favor, that she would put on her bonnet imme- 
diately, and return with him to see his wife, who wag 
extrenicly ill at Fairview, the sorceress was re-assurcd, and 
with her usual bewitching grace consented to accompany 
him. ? 

When they arrived at Fairview House, and were shown 
up into the sick chamber, the patient smiled and held out her 
vands. Georgia hastened towards her, and seized both handg 
sovering them with kisses, and making a show of great emo 


“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 305 


tiun. Zuleime raised her feeble voice, and begged all to go 
out of the room, and leave her alone with her visitor. And 
when every one had departed, and the door was closed, she 
said— 

«Sit down, please, here by my bedside.” Mrs. Georgia 
took the nurse’s arm-chair. ‘ Dear Georgia,’ she said, 
gently taking both her hands, and looking kindly in her faee, 
‘‘T sent for you, because I thought you must be so unhappy 
about what you have unintentionally caused me to suffer. 
And I wished to tell you not to remember it in bitterness 
any more. Oh! I grieve so much at the memory of what I 
have made my dear father suffer, that I can feel for others 
who are tortured by remorse, and I would not, for the whole 
world, that any one should mourn for what they have caused 
me to suffer. So, dear Georgia, I acquit you of all blame, 
from the bottom of my heart, indeed I do—anid I pray that 
God may make you happier than J have ever been. And I 
will never, never drop a hint, by which any one shall sus- 
pect—I mean I will never Jet fall a word to any one, that 
shall injure you, Georgia. I would not die and bequeath 
you so bitter a legacy as an enemy. Though I knew you 
would not come and ask me, I sent for you tou assure you of 
this, Georgia, and to reconcile myself with you, that we might 
be friends before I die. And now, God bless you! Kiss me, 
and say good-bye, for my fever is rising.” 

And she held up her lips. Georgia was weeping. 

“ Zuleime, my dear child, why don’t you call ne mamma, 
as heretofore ?”’ she asked. 

“Oh, don’t you know long ago you told me not to do it. 
But I will, if you wish it, now. Kiss me, dear mamma. 
There, now, go and be at peace.” ) 

Georgia hurried from the room. They never met again. 

Zuleime revived slightly when the spring opened. She 
had heard that her sister Carolyn had nearly recovered her 
health, and was just about to set out on her voyage home. 
And two sceret wishes the poor girl indulged: once more to 
visit White Cliffs, and to live to see her only sister again. 
But she kept them to herself in the fear of giving Frank 
trouble, for she knew that he would try to move Heaven and 
earth to please her, and deeply grieve if he should fail. She 
concealed her wants, but they were discovered by him wuu 
watched day and night to anticipate her wishes. And Cap- 
tain Fairfax called upon the family physician, and consulted 


306 “rN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


him upon the possibility of taking Zuleime to White Cliffs, 
as soon ag the spring weather should be permanently settled. 
The physician’s opinion was highly favorable to- his wishes. 
He said that she might be removed by easy stages to the 
country, and that if proper care and attention were bestowed, 
the journey and the chanye of air would probably be found 
very beneficial to her health. Captain Fairfax hastened 
home to cheer his wife with the news. And she was glad- 
dened by it. She caught both his hands and kissed them, 
and held them to her face, and looking at him fondly, said— 

“ Dear Frank! dearest Frank! you try to perform mira- 
eles for me!” 

The same night, Captain Fairfax wrote to Mrs. Clifton, of 
Hardbargain, to go over to White Cliffs and prepare to re- 
ceive the invalid. And from that day Zuleime revived, and 
by the first of June was so much better, as to be able to be 
placed in the comfortable family carriage, in which, some- 
times reclining upon downy cushions, sometimes resting upon 
the bosom of her husband, and supported by his arms, she 
traveled by easy stages to White Cliffs. They reached the 
end of their journey upon the afternoon of the third day. 
Mrs. Clifton and Catherine were there to receive them. Zu- 
leime was lifted out of the carriage, very much exhausted. 
Yet, as she was gently carried through the yard, her eyes 
roved gladly over all the dear familiar secene—over moun- 
tains, fields and forests, clothed now in the luxuriant foliage 
of June—and all her countenance lighted up with joy, and 
she exclaimed many times in tones of profound gratitude— 

“Thank God! oh, thank God!” 

She was carried up stairs, and put to bed at once. And 
Catherine was stationed to watch her slumbers, while Mrs. 
Clifton remained below to attend to the comfort of the tired 
travelers. But Zuleime frequently awoke with a joyful start 
and recollection ; and once she put her hand in that of Kate, 
and said— 

“ Dear Kate! blessed Kate! I am so glad to see you 
again! And so very glad to be home again! Sweet Sister 
of Mercy! will you stay and nurse me also? I think you 
vuuld almost cure me! Sweet, unprofessed nun, will you 
stay and nurse me, +00 ?” ) 

“ Yes, dear Zuleime, I will stay as long as you want me. 
But shut those tired eyes, love, and go to sleep.” 

“ Yes, seal each eyelid down with a kiss, dear Kate, and 


“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 307 


then they will stay closed. And hold my hand as I go te 
sleep—lI feel so safe when some one I love holds my hand 
while I siumber. I feel as if they could keep me in life while 
T slept, for you must know, dear Kate, that my heart has a 
morbid action, and some of these days I shall fall asleep 
lightly as now, but never awake again.” 

“ Dear Zuleime, you must not indulge such fancies.” 

«They are not fancies, they are realities. I do not de- 
ecive myself and trifle with you, Kate. Do not you deceive 
nie or trifle with me, either. There are secrets of life and 
death known only to the dying. Such a secret is mine. I 
know that I shall lightly drop asleep some day, and never 
wake again—that is the reason I wish some one [I love to kiss 
my eyelids down, and to hold my hand while I slumber.” 
The words, the manner of the dying girl carried deep con- 
viction to the heart of Catherine, and— 

«Qh! Zuleime,” she said, “lean upon the failing arm 
of flesh if you will, but, oh, seek! seek the support of 
that Almighty arm that can sustain you in life and in death! 
Seek that !” 

«T will—I wish to do it, or rather you, the handmaid of 
the Lord, shall bear me up in your faithful hands, and lay 
me within that Arm of Strength. I wished this long ago, 
but, oh, my dear husband and his good mother! they thought 
only of restoring me to health, and I could think of nothing 
but of trying to live for them, until very lately, when it was 
revealed to me that I should surely die. I have never yet 
told Frank anything about this. I feared it would distress 
him too much; but the lone knowledge troubled me. I 
needed to tell some one of it, some dear one with whom I 
could converse confidentially, and who should be wise enough 
to counsel me, patient enough to bear with me, courageous 
enough to face the result, and who, besides, would not be too 
greatly distressed, as my hear husband would. And so, 
sweet Kate, I have told you. Will you now stay with me 
and nurse me 2” 

«Yes, dear Zuleime, as long as you wish me to do so; but 
now, darling, if I am to be your nurse, you must mind what 
I have to say to you, and go to sleep.” Catherine bent over 
ner, and kissed her eyelids down upon the weary eyes, and 
held her hand until she fell asleep. At night, Captain Fair- 
fax relieved her watch. 

The next morning when Catherine entered the room she 


308 “rw PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


sat duwn by the side of the bed, and told her that she haa 
good news to tell, that they had received a ietter from Major 
Clifton, that Carolyn’s health was improving, and that they 
had emba-ked, or had purposed to embark upon the first of 
May, and expected to reach home as soon as the middle of - 
June. Zuleime clasped her hands in fervent thanksgiving 
while she listened, and when her friend ceased to speak, sha 
exclaimed— . 

‘In two weeks she will be here—oh! that I may live io 
see it!” 

Kate bade her be of good cheer and hope; and when 
Catherine told any one to hope, her words and looks and 
manner all inspired the feeling. Zuleime was so recovered 
and enlivened as to be able to be lifted from her bed and 
placed in the easy-chair by the open window, that looked out 
upon the mountain scenery, all glorious in the light of sum- 
mer morning. Old Mrs. Fairfax, and Mrs. Clifton of Hard- 
biurgain, came in to pay her a visit, bringing her little gir] 
with them. As for Captain Fairfax, he seldom left her side. 
All congratulated the invalid upon her improved health and 
spirits, and hoped and foretold great results from her resi- 
dence in the country, and projected many pleasant drives, 
when she should be a little rested from the fatigue of her 
journey. Then they talked of Major Clifton and Carolyn’s 
expected arrival, and laid out extensive plans of amusement 
to be put in execution when they should come, by which time 
Zuleime also would be considerably restored. Thus cheer- 
fully, hopefully they talked. And the dying one listened 
sweetly ; but when she found herself alone again with Kate, 
she said— 

“‘T let them talk, Catherine, for if they really have any 
hopes of my recovery, I do not wish to destroy those hopes 
by telling what I know, and if they only talk so to cheer me, 
why even then I do not like to make them sad by not seem- 
ing to believe them. And yet, and yet, perhaps I ought to 
tell Frank; perhaps I will!” 

Catherine devoted herself to the service of the invalid, 
laboring zealously for her spiritual as for her bodily good. 
Indeed, the girl glided into the performance of such duties as 
naturally as if she felt herself especially called to the work, 
born for the work. The selfish wish for her own comfort and 
pleasure had never been very strong in the heart of Cathe~ 
tine; and w'thin the last two years it seemed to have exe 


“IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 309 


pired. She lived only for the good of others. She had grown 
to believe that there was no individual happiness for herself, 
except in the service of others. Young hope had died out in 
her heart, she was resigned. She adopted the submissive 
words of Mary and her Son, and said, within her heart, in 
deepest sincerity: — 

‘“‘ Behold, the bandmaid of the Lord.” ‘ Not my will, but 
Thine, oh God.” 

Zuleime was lifted from the bed to the easy-chair every 
morning, and calmly and profoundly the invalid enjoyed those 
glorious summer mornings. But she was failing very fast. 
She grew very anxious for the coming of her sister ; but, un- 
willing to disturb any one by her anxiety, she confided it 
only to Kate. They had not heard from Major Clifton since 
the letter announcing his expected embarkation. They justly 
supposed him to be on his voyage home, accompanied by 
Carolyn, and were now daily looking for a letter announcing 
their landing, and their speedy arrival home. The middle of 
June passed, and no letter had come. The first of July ar- 
rived, but brought no news of the voyagers. 

“Oh, if they had come when they promised, they might 
have seen me before I died—but I cannot hold out much 
longer, Kate. I feel as if the longing to meet Carolyn again 
had kept me up as by the excitement of expectation, but, 
Kate, I feel very weary, very much inclined to droop, yet 
know if I should give way I should drop mto the arms of 
Death. I wish they would come. I want to see Carolyn. I 
want to see her happiness with my own eyes. And then it 
is not for myself—for if I die before she comes, Carolyn will 
take it very much to heart to know that her poor little sister 
had been found and had died—so inopportunely, just before 
she had got home. I wish they would come.” 

The second week in July arrived—with three days of cloud, 
and rain, and gloom. Zuleime could not leave her bed for 
her favorite seat at the window, but Catherine served her 
with more love and zeal than ever. The family had as yet 
~eceived no news of the travelers, and though: they daily 
grew more anxious, there was no foreboding in their anxicty. 
Sea-voyages at that day were of such uncertain length. All 
was no doubt well. 

But on the evening of the second rainy day, while Captain 
Fairfax and Catherine sat with Zuleime, and all the other 
members of the family were assembled in the summer saloon, 


310 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


the door of the latter was quietly opened, and Major Cliftun 
stood before the astonished circle. His mother advanced to 
meet and welcome him. Then she noticed—and they all no- 
ticed, that he was clothed in deep mourning. That told the 
tale! They welcomed him with affectionate sympachy, but 
no one asked a question. Nor did he as yet volunteer a word 
of his sorrow’s history. It was only the next day that his 
mother learned from him how deceptive was the seeming con- 
valescence of his wife—how from the day of their embarka- 
tion her strength declined—how for weeks their hearts fluc- 
tuated between hope and fear, as with the changes of her 
flattering disease she seemed better or worse—how when all 
thought of life was gone, but one earthly hope possessed her 
soul—to die at home ;—of the waning of that last hope—of 
the death at sea—and, finally, of the lone grave in the ocean 
isle, where slept the mortal remains of the haughtiest beauty 
that eyer trod the halls of a palace. 

They would willingly have concealed the fact of her sis- 
ter’s decease from the dying girl—no one ventured to ‘tell 
her of the event—they fondly believed that she remained in 
ignorance of it. But she knew it all from what she saw and . 
heard. She knew that Major Clifton had returned alone, and 
she surmised the rest from the sad and tearful faces of all 
around her. Yes, she knew it all, as well as any could have 
made her know it, and in the tender thoughtfulness of her 
soul, she would not distress any by asking them questions 
relating to the last moment. But from this hour she sank 
rapidly. She could no longer be lifted from her bed without 
fainting. In deep trouble, Captain Fairfax summoned the 
old family physician. When he came, and saw the patient, 
his opinion was decidedly formed, and truthfully given—he 
said that the Richmond physician had evidently abandoned * 
the case as hopeless, when he sent her home to die—that her 
life had probably been prolonged by her residence in the 
country—but that nothing could have saved her—and that 
she had now not many days to live. Captain Fairfax was 
almost mad with griet—and all the self-possession and self- 
control that he had learned in the long attendance upon her 
sick bed well nigh deserted him. It was many hours before 
he was sufficiently composed to take his usual place by her 
bedside, and then his agonized countenance betrayed the ex- 
tent of his.suffering. Catherine was sitting by her when he 
sutured. Zuleime xa’wd her dying eves, and looking at him, 


“TN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 311 


tenderly beckoned him to approach. Then she motioned 
Catherin> to leave her. When they were alone-—she laid her 
hand within his own, and looking at him with unutterable 
love, said— 

“¢ Dear Frank—dearest Frank—I see that you know it all 
at last. Dearest Frank, I have known it a long time. Now 
let us talk freely and confidentially about it—let there be no 
more of that painful mist between us as when you thought only 
of my restoration to health, and I knew I was sinking fast 
into the grave.” She paused a moment, and then said—* I 
want so much to comfort you. I have something to say to 
you.” 

His fingers closed upon her hand convulsively. He choked 
down his strong, rising emotion, and said— 

“Do not try to talk, love, the effort will exhaust your 
strength.” 

«¢ No—no, it will not. I am not so weak as I was when 
you came in. Dearest Frank, when you sit by me, and hold 
my hand, new life seems to run up my feeble veins, and [ 
feel stronger. Let me talk, love. Ah! do not look so sad' 
It is better as it is, love. It is better I should go. I have 
spoiled my own life, and should spoil yours if I should live. 
Ah, it is a dreadful thing to occasion the death of any one! 
it is an awful thing to cause the death of a father. I caused 
the death of the most loving father that ever lived. And. 
dearest Frank! though in the struggle, in the bitterness of 
poverty, in the pangs of hunger and of cold, and in the pain 
and debility of illness, the feeling of compunction has been 
diverted, yet—had health returned with prosperity—remorse 
would then have darkened all my life; and in ruining my 
happiness, would have marred yours. Yes! I have spoiled 
my own life. It is well that I should not live to spoil yours, 
dearest Frank! I talk not of expiation now. Nothing that 
I could do or suffer, would alter the irrevocable past. We 
have all one Redeemer—Jesus Christ the Righteous. So I 
talk not of expiating the past; though perhaps if any heart 
is hardened against me, my early death may soften it. But 
let me speak of the future—your future, dearest Frank, and 
let me say it is better for all your coming years that I should 
die.” 

“¢ Oh, do not say sv, Zuleime—you break my heart.” 

« Dear Frank, you will grieve for me, I know you will, 
but be comforted. You are so young yet. This sorrow will 


312 “IN PALACE CHAMBERS.” 


pass like a morning cloud, and leave all your life a Jong 
bright day.” She paused abruptly—a gray shadow swept 
darkly over her face and vanished. He did not see it, his 
face was buried if his hands. Then she asked to have her 
child brought to her. Frank went out, but soon returned to 
say that little Fan had been put to bed; and to ask her if 
the child should be waked up. ‘ No, do not wake the poer, 
little thing,’’? she said, and then added, “I am very, very 
sleepy, Frank; dearest Frank, kiss my eyelids down to 
slumber like you always do, and hold my hand till I fall 
asleep. Kiss my lips, too, this time; kiss them last of all— 
—there—good-night, love.” Her voice sank away ina low, 
inaudible murmur, like a dying sound on the Eolian harp. 

Her husband sat and held her hand, never moving, scarcely 
breathing, lest he should disturb her long, deep sleep. He 
sat there more than an hour. The room grew dark with the 
shades of evening; and when at length Catherine entered 
with the night lamp, he raised his hand with a sign of silence 
and caution, murmuring— 

‘She has fallen asleep.”” Catherine approached quietly, 
shading the lamp with her hand, and looked upon the sleeper. 
‘Hush, be very cautious—do not disturb her,” whispered 
Frank. 

The sweet and solemn voice of Catherine gently arose, say- 
mg, “ Come away, Captain Fairfax. Nothing will ever disturb 
ber more. She has fallen asleep in Jesus.” 


GEORGIA. 313 


CHAPTER XXVI 


GEORGIA. 


The serpent now began to change; 
Her elfin blood in madness ran.—Keats 


Two months have passed since the death of the sisters 
To the consternation of the Aaut ton of the city, the beautiful 
Mrs. Clifton has left Richmond, and come down to mourn 
with those that mourn at White Cliffs. With an air at once 
of earnest conviction and graceful weariness, she says that it 
is * All vanity and vexation of spirit,’ meaning fashionable 
society, spring traveling, and sight secing ; summers at wa- 
tering-places among the mountains, or by the sea-side ; win- 
ters in town, with plays, concerts, balls, dressing, visiting and 
waltzing ; autumn partics in the country-houses, with eques- 
trian expeditions, sailing excursions, and forest rides and 
drives, and even the moonlight serenades, and “ the slight 
flirtation by the light of the chandelier.” Mrs. Georgia 
speaks the truth. ‘ Vanity” all this undoubtedly is in Aer. 
But entres nous, the 6‘ vexation of spirit”? appertains to cer- 
tain ‘* small” accounts, ranging from fifty to fifteen hundred 
dollars, and sent in by landlords, merchants, jewelers, mil- 
liners, etc., people so wanting in delicate perception, as not 
to see that the honor of the belle’s custom was quite payment 
enough in itself for their goods, and so utterly destitute of 
classic lore, and the faculty of distinguishing persons, as 
actually to draw out on apiece of paper a list of items oppo- 
site to a row of figures, with a sum total at the bottom, and 
send it to a Circe, as if she were a tradesman, and could un- 
derstand it! Charming Georgia did not even try to compre- 
nend such mysterious hieroglyphics. She knew, bewitching 
creature! that “where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be 
wise.” Therefore, to escape duns, to recruit health and 
spirits, and, of all things, to console Major Clifton, she has 
yome down to White Cliffs. The beautiful Georgia presented 


314 GEORGIA. 


herself to the mourning master of White Cliffsin a very de 
precating spirit—she said that she felt her arrival there at 
such a moment to be almost an intrusion, but that he would 
excuse it, as she had exhausted money and credit, and had no 
other home. 

«‘ You know,” she added, as the tears suffused her large, 
dark eyes, ‘I am like the unjust steward of the parable, ‘I 
cannot work—to beg I am ashamed.’ ” 

“Except instead of being unjust, you suffer from the in- 
justice of others,” said Archer Clifton, very gently. He 
said that he considered the entail, which cut off the widow 
from any share in the landed estate of her deceased husband, 
very unjust and cruel. He knew that his uncle had deeply 
regretted it, and would have left all his personal property to 
her, had it not been swallowed up by debt. He said that he 
himself deplored the circumstance, and if it were legally in 
his power, he would divide the land with her, but that he 
only held it in entail, and as entire as it came to him it must 
be held for his heirs. He added, that he considered it his 
duty to compensate his uncle’s widow for the injustice of the 
law to her, and that the case being so, she would find thirty 
thousand dollars placed to her account in the Bank of Rich- 
mond. Mrs. Georgia was overcome with emotion at this 
Sembee’ on the part of Major Glifton. She put her hand- 

erchief to her eyes, and arose hurriedly, with every mark 
of extreme agitation, exclaiming— 

““ No, no—this is too much! too good! only lend me the 
shelter of this roof—once my home—until I look about me 
and consider what to do.” 

He took her hand, with every demonstration of the ten- 
derest affection and respect, and pressed it to his lips, and 
begged her to consider herself as heretofore, mistress of the 
establishment for as long as she wished—for her whole life, 
if she pleased—and himself only as her sometime guest— 
adding, that it was impossible he should ever bring another 
.ady there. She withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes, 
and glancing at him with a countenance eloquent with grati- 
tude, respect, and affection, exclaimed— 

“J take a large portion of your personal property, and | 
turn you from your home! Oh! no, no, no, theu thrice 
noble and generous man, no! Not one dollar of that money 
will 1 touch, so help me Heaven! And not one hour will I 
atay un‘er this voof, if the master of the house is to be only 


GEORGIA. 315 


my ‘sometime guest !? No! J—I—l1 -uust go back to the 
city, and give lessons in drawing and painting, as befits the 
artist’s daughter.” 

“And as does not befit my uncle’s widow, lady!” said 
Archer Clifton, again taking her hand. ‘I have considered 
myself in some sort your guardian and protector—if you will 
admit the claim. Now, listen to me calmly, and act reason- 
ably, for we of White Cliffs are not accustomed to be opposed 
by the ladies of our family. Hear me, then: This money, 
which I have placed to your account, is rightfully yours. I 
will explain. It was the fortune of my dearest Carolyn—” 
here his voice faltered, he paused a moment, during whick 
Georgia pressed his hand, and looked in his face with an ex- 
pression of unspeakable sympathy—then he resumed, calmly, 
«¢ Had she died unmarried, and during her father’s lifetime, 
this money would have reverted to him, and he would doubt- 
less have left it to you. I only give you that which, but for 
me, might have reached you more directly. And now let 
that subject rest forever.” 

“ Ah, but best and most generous of friends, I drive you 
from your home by staying here! I cannot stay! I must 
depart !” 

“You must not, Mrs. Clifton—this is your proper home, 
as it is also mine. You do not drive me hence—why should 
-you? Could I possibly remain, your company would be the 
dearest solace I could have. No! it is memory that drives 
me hence, sweet friend! I must—I must forget myself in 
distant lands! Forgive me for talking thus—-to be quite 
plain, as soon as the intricate affairs of this estate are disen- 
tangled, and wound up, I design to set out for two or three 
years of travel; yet I shall not be able to get off for several 
weeks.” 

Here the conversation ended for the present. Thinking 
that for the first few days, at least, Mrs. Georgia would need 
a female companion, he got in his chaise, and went cver to 
Hardbargain for Catherine. 

“Kate is not here,” said Mrs. Clifton, in answer to his 
iuquiries—* do you not know that she has been for three 
weeks at her brother’s cabin, nursing his wife through her 
confinement ?”” 

Major Clifton threw his hat upon the table, and dropped 
himself into a chair, with an air of extreme vexation, say- 
ng— 


316 GEORGIA. 


“It really seems to me that that girl is nurse and ser 
vant-in-general to the neighborhood! Her brother might 
easily have found some old woman to nurse his wife. I won- 
der you permit her to be made such a slave of by everybody, 
mother.” 

<¢ Tt does her no harm, Archer.” 

‘‘Twelve months singe you introduced Catherine into the 
best society in Richmond.” 

“The richest, you mean-—not the best, by a great deal.” 

‘¢ And now you suffer her to throw herself into the most 
vulgar and common! Dear madam, is this right ?” 

““¢ What God hath cleansed, call not thou common, or 
unclean ’—yes! it is right! Catherine, a girl of the very hum- 
blest birth, with natural talent and acquired accomplishments 
that fit her for any circle—should mix with all. And, 
Archer, what do you mean by ‘vulgar? If ignoble minds, 
corrupt hearts, and mean actions constitute vulgarity—then 
I for one have met more vulgar people in so-called high-life 
than ever I saw in low-life !” 

‘¢ My dear mother, you are a Republican—let us waive 
this discussion, for I dislike to differ from you, and tell me 
where I shall find Catherine, for she positively must return 
with me to White Cliffs, to bear Mrs. Georgia compauy, 
until some other companion can be procured for her.” 

‘“‘ Catherine is at her brother’s cabin, as I told you.” 

« The same cabin he occupied before I left home (” 

“ Certainly.” 

Major Clifton entered the gig, and turned the horse’s head . 
towards the dell in which the overseer’s cabin stood. When 
he drew up before the door, Carl came out to welcome hin, 
and invite him to alight. 

“‘ No, thank you, send Catherine hither,” he said— 

Carl looked very much as though he did not intend to 
obey this haughty behest—but Catherine had already heard 
the demand, and appeared at the door. 

“‘ How-do-you-do, Kate? Mrs. Georgia Clifton is at my 
Louse, and I wish you to return with me to attend upon her. 
Come, get your bonnet, at once, Catherine, for I am rather 
hurried.” 

«We cannot spare Catherine, sir,” said Carl, in a tone of 
displeasure. 

“¢T did not address myself to you, my good fellow,” said 
Major (‘liftor, looking over his head, and throngh the door 


GEORGIA. 317 


of the cabin, watcling Catherine, as she tied on her 
bonnet. 

When Kate 3ame out, he handed her into the gig, and 
nodding carelessly to the flushed, indignant Carl, drove off. 
When they had driven a little way— 

“‘ Catherine,” he said, “is that man your full brother ?”” 

“Yes, sir.” 

‘<'The same father and mother ?” 

<< Yes, sir.” 

“ Humph! You are not at all alike in feature. Are you 
very much attached to this brother, Catherine ?” 

<¢ Yes, sir.”’ 

“Humph.” He did not speak again until they had 
reached White Cliffs, when he handed her out, and said— 
“Catherine, Mrs. Georgia is greatly fatigued ; I wish you to 
attend to her comforts, this evening—do you bear ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” veplied Kate. 

The next day Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to 
eall on Georgia. And afterwards, at the earnest solicitaticn 
of her son, she paid them a visit of a week. Major Clifton 
busied himself with the settlement of the estate. Although 
the great debts of the late Mr. Clifton could not be recovered 
of him, he determined to pay them all. A great many of 
then he discharged at once, by cash; and in payment of 
others, he gave notes, bearing interest. The calling in of these 
numerous debts, and the arrangement of the terms of pay- 
ment, and other matters, occupied him nearly two months, 
so that it was the last of autumn before he was ready to set 
cut on his journey. 

He had taken leave of his mother the evening previous te 
the day upon which he was to leave home. The next morn 
ing, in parting from Mrs. Georgia and Catherine, he took 
leave of the lady, in a tender and respectful manner, raising 
her hand to his lips—but he drew Kate to his bosom, and 
pushing back the rippling waves of chestnut hair, that con- 
cealed or shaded two-thirds of her massive forehead, he said, 
gravely and sweetly— | 

“¢ What are yon going to do with all this brain while I am 
gone, Kate? How much longer will it lie fallew! Well' 
Never mind!” He kissed her freely and fondly as a near 
relative might, and bowing once more to Mrs. Georgia, has- 
tened away. He paused upon the threshold of the door, 
hewever, seemed to hesitate, then suddenly came back, seized 

20 


318 GEORGIA, 


the hand of Kate, and drew her out upon the porch. “Ca 
therine,” he said, “ do you remember a promise you made me 
once—not to marry without my consent ?” 

«Yes, sir, | remember it.” 

“I hold you to that promise, Kate. I must speak plainly 
‘o you at the risk or the certainty of wounding your feelings; 
yours is a singular position, Catherine—a ‘girl of humble 
birth, quite penniless, yet with education and accomplish-= 
tents that fit her to grace a higher cirele. It is not likely, 
Catherine, that any gentleman in this part of the country 
will ever become a suitor for your hand, and no ove who is 
not a gentleman should be permitted to do so!—-Therefore, 
Catherine, I wish you to promise me not to listen to any pro- 
posals without my consent,” 

‘<] promised you long ago, sir. I will keep that promise 
until you release me from it!” 

“That isa good girl! Now, then, once more good-bye,” 
and again he folded her to his bosom, and then, indeed, he 
was gone. 

Catherine turned with the intention of seeking her own 
room, but was instantly confronted by Mrs. Georgia Clifton, 
who stood before her with pallid cheek, set teeth, and gleam- 
ing eyes. She caught the wrist of the girl, and keeping a 
strong, vice-like grasp upon it, dragged her almost with vio- 
lence into the parlor before the window, and casting herself 
into a chair, pulled Catherine up before her, and fixed thuse 
wild, dilated, star-like eyes upon her face. It fell blushing 
under the gaze. 

“¢ You love that man,” she said, drawing her breath hardly, 
like one in a passing pain. 

The blush deepened upon Catherine’s cheek, but she did 
not reply in words. F 

“Speak! Answer me! You love that man?’ she re- 
peated, clutching the wrist of the girl so tightly as to cause 
her to wince. 

“‘ Madam, I am grateful to Major Clifton—he is my benes 
fuctor—he cares for me, and I am grateful to him.” 

“He is an arrogant man—he reminded you of your low 
birth.” 

“1 know he did, madam, and perhaps I ought to have 
vindicated our common human nature, and told hin. as I 
tell you now, that there is no such thing in God s universe 
as low birth, that every child comes into His world with 


GEORGIA. 319 


equal vlaim upon His people; perhaps it was my duty te 
have told him this, only Iam always a coward before Major 
Clifton, and never can say the right thing at the right time 
to him, as I can to others.” 

“You love him! That is the reason! And you are a 
fool if you do not know it, or a hypocrite if, knowing it, you 
deny it. But he despises your love! He said to you, him- 
self, that no gentleman would be likely to be a suitor for 
your hand!” 

“T know he did, lady. His care for me makes him say 
rough, blunt things sometimes. I can bear them from him.” 

“You love him! Deny it, if you dare! But you are an 
idiot ! an idiot! if you do not take Ais hint to conquer that 
passion! He said it was not likely that any gentleman 
would ever become a suitor for your hand! he is a gentle- 
man—therefore he can never stoop to you! You do not 
answer me! Do you, perchance, deceive yourself with the 
idea that he ever will 2” 

‘¢ Lady—no, I do not deceive myself with the idea that 
he will ever ‘stoop’ to marry me. The woman that Major 
Clifton shall marry, if he ever marries, will be quite worthy 
of him, and that will preclude the idea of his ‘stooping’ te 
her.” 

«And that woman will not be you, presumptuous girl 
Do you dare to hope it will? Speak! Answer me!” 

«¢ Lady !” said Catherine, in a tone of grave and dignified 
rebuke, “ considering the recent bereavement of Major Clif 
ton, the discussion into which you have drawn me is indeli- 
cate, to use no harsher term!” 

«“¢Recent!? It is of five months’ standing! You evade 
my question! You evade all my questions! I asked you 
if you loved him! Answer me!” 

«‘ Lady! long ago my heart became too unruly for my own 
managemett, and I gave it, with all its desires and affections, 
tc God. I love nothing out of Him!” 

«¢ And do you expect Archer Clifton will ever marry you? 
Answer that !” 

“‘ Madam, I expect nothing.” 

“Do you hope it, then ?”” 

“Lady, I hope nothing.” 

“ You prevaricate, girl! Do you wish it then?” 

‘Madam, I only wish that God may appoint all times, 
seasons and evests in my life—making me humble, gencrous 


320 GEORGIA. 


and grateful in prosperity, if it comes; and strong, cous 
rageous and patient in adversity, if, as is most likely, that 
comes !” 

«“ Humph—would it make you happy to be the wife of 
Archer Clifton ?” 

“Mrs. Clifton, you have no right to ask me that ques 
tien |” 

“ Yet I do ask you, and I insist upon a reply '” 

“© And I decline giving it.” 

‘“T am answered! You love Archer Clifton! You feed 
your heart upon the secret hope of one day being his wife! 
And xvw listen to me, girl!”? she exclaimed, every vestige 
of prudence and self-restraint swept away by her rising pas- 
sion, “ J, too, day and night, feed my soul upon one des- 
perate hope—that I live for, would die for, or go to perdition 
for! I, too, love Clifton. JI loved him the first hour I ever 
saw him. I have loved him ever since, only more madly for 
every obstacle, danger, duty that stood between, dividing us! 
[ have schemed, dared, sinned for him! Twice he has been 
snatched from me by fate, twice restored to my hopes! Oh! 
[ know my own strong will had much to do with that restora- 
tion! He is given to my hopes again! Think you, now, 
that you can win him from me? Vo, idiot! If there be 
any power in my own soul, on earth, in Heaven, or in hell to 
help me, I will find it out, and enlist it to give me this one 
desire of my heart, this man’s love! Since first I ever be- 
held his face, I have dreamed, hoped, toiled, /ived for nothing 
else! I have suffered for him! Oh! angels and devils! how I 
have suffered for him! In the days when he came wooing 
Carolyn, wooing her before the face of me, bound with indisso- 
luble chains !—me, loving him as she had no power or con- 
ception of loving anything! Many times I was almost mad with 
despair !—knowing, too, if he would only love me I should be 
nearly mad with joy! Ihave sacrificed great prospects for 
him. Yes! littleas you think me capable of it! This sume 
mer I might have made a splendid alliance in Richmord—a 
traveling nobleman—an English nobleman, girl! a baron with 
an annual rental of thirty thousand pounds ste-"ing—with 
seats in the three kingdoms, and a palace in Portman Square. 
I rejected him, when I knew that Clifton was free! In the 
faint hope of winning Clifton, I would not bind myself. All 
that I have ever done of good or of evil has had him for its 
_ end and obiect! I was the belle, queen, idol of Richmond 


GEORGIA. 321 


If I schemed and toiled for a position, and gioried in my 
success, it was that he might hear of it, and his pride might 
be enlisted for me! You saw me one winter at the governor’s 
recepiion! You saw how I was worshiped there! But he 
was present—and free, and I did not care what the thou- 
sands thought of me, I only cared what that unit might 
think!” Her voice sank into tenderness, and she paused, 
and dropped her brow into both open hands. But soon raise 
ing her head again, she said, * Look at me well! Ay, 
look! What sort of a rival do you take me to be? If you 
cannot guess, I will tell you! I am not superstitious or 
scrupulous, as you are! Iam one, who, for my soul’s great 
passion, will do, or dare, or suffer anything! I ask no leave 
of earth or Heaven for what I do! I do what I will, or can. 
and take the consequences; earth or Heaven can but punish, 
and I can risk or bear it !—for there is no pain or loss in tho 
universe that I weigh with the loss of my love! And not 
for the fear of eternal perdition—not for the hope of ever- 
lasting salvation, will I forego the joy of my mortal love! 
Now, hear me, girl!” She rose upon her feet, bending over 
Catherine, with her hand clutched upon the maiden’s shoul- 
der with a vice-like grip, and, gazing into her eyes with con- 
tracted, gleaming pupils, she said,—while her voice dropped 
into the low, deep, stern tone of intense and concentrated 
passion, in which every word, syilable, letter was articulated 
with a distinct, metallic ring :—*‘ Now, hear me! If yeu 
dare te come between me and my love—by the living Lord 
that sent my burning soul upon this dull earth, and who can 
hurl it hence to a burning perdition—I will find a way to 
kill you! Do you hear me?’ 

Catherine grew pale beneath the tiger eye and clutch of 
the fearful woman, but she answered — 

“ Madam, I have heard you utter wild and wicked words. 
I will endeavor to forget them.” 

‘Remember them! You are warned !” 

And releasing her hold, the dark lady passed from the 
room. 

Catherine remained sitting where she had left her, appalled 
by the exhibition of demoniac passion she had witnessed. 
One pain and one fear possessed her above all others—deep 
regret that this most wicked woman had evidently already 
attained such an ascendancy over the mind of Clifton, and 
dread lest, ‘a despite of all the sin, she would gain ber ob 


S22 GEORGIA. 


iect—his hand! But Catherine carried all her doubts and 
fears to her Heavenly I'ather. And svon to her clear, strong 
mind it became evident, that howev2r wicked and unscrupu- 
lous, potent and dangerous the Circe might be on ordinary 
occasions, she possessed too little self-government, was under 
the influence of too strong and impetuous passions, to suc~ 
ceed in maintaining any long course of duplicity, such ag 
would be necessary to the accomplishment of her purpose. 
And Kate became calm. She wished to leave the house. 
She could ill bear to live under the same roof with this wo- 
man, and meet her at least three times a day, at meals, if no 
oftener But she had promised Major Clifton to remain with 
Mrs. Georgia until she should have other company, and she 
must keep her promise. It was, besides, doubly sacred, be 
ing made to him, and the pain it brought her was enduraL. 
—borne for him. 

Mrs. Georgia sought the garden, the open air, anywher 
where she could breathe freely. When the storm in her 
bosom had subsided, and reason was again in the ascendant, 
she could have torn her hair and beat her breast, yea, and 
rent her garments with excess of chagrin, to think that she 
had so betrayed herself to Catherine. She did not fully be- 
lieve that Catherine would repeat this scene where it could 
injure her, or anywhere, in fact. Still, she thought it safer 
to guard against such a contingency, and while she herself 
still possessed the unshaken confidence and respect ef Major 
Clifton, to impugn the conduct «nd character of Catherine, 
and thus forestall and invalidate any testimony she might 
hereafter give. She felt that she must proceed very cau- 
tiously. A plan of correspondence had been arranged with 
Major Clifton, previous to his departure. She soon began to 
receive long letters from him, filled with interesting descrip- 
tious of the countries through which he passed, the people 
whom he met, and philosophical comments upon both. And 
to these she replied in other letters, full of appreciation, ad- 
miration, gratitude, and breathing, besides, the highest, pu- 
rest, most disinterested sentiments and opinions upon all the 
subjects of their correspondence. Into these letters, she 
gradually introduced the name of Catherine—carelessly, at 
first, as if she thought little about her, one way or the other, 
—as thus: “ Catherine is with me still—she desires to be 
remembered ;”” then, in a second letter, by a slight line of 
praise, as though the girl was rather winning upon her, as-- 


GEORGIA. 823 


Catherine is well. By the way, what a remarkably clever 
girl she is;” then, in another, with warmer panegyric, as 
though she really very much improved upon longer acquaint- 
ance, thus: ‘ How can I ever thank you sufficiently for 
placing Catherine with me?’ Next came high encomiums upon 
. Catherine’s talents, in this wise: “Catherine has left me, 
and is with your mother, as no doubt the latter has written 
you. Apropos! Whata mind that girl has! Did you ever 
observe 2”? And then, in a subsequent epistle, came an ex- 
pression of wonder at the “ diplomatic” character of Kate’s 
intellect, and an opinion that the writer really believod her 
thrown away in private life. And next, a cooler mention of 
the maiden, with the hint of a fear that she was gaining the 
mastery over Mrs. Clifton’s strong mind. Finally, after 
some months, she wrote thus, as if speaking frankly from a 
sense of duty, and at the cost of great pain: “I fear that I 
have been greatly deceived in my estimate of Catherine’s 
good principles. How shall I introduce what I am about to 
say to you? But you had best come home and see for your- 
self. For I know that your mother is in the power of as 
dangerous an intriguante as I ever heard of; and mind—she 
will influence Mrs. Clifton to disinherit her own sun, and be- 
queath Aer the farm at Hardbargain. That ‘ Maria Teresa’ 
brow of hers meant something, after all. But you do not 
know with what pain I write this, Archer! [cannot pursue 
the subject—only regard for you, and fidelity to your -in- 
terests, would have drawn me to its discussion. I[ advise 
you to come home and look after your own welfare '” 

What influence this had upon Major Clifton, will be seen 
in the sequel. 

And while Georgia was exercising her power abroad, sho 
was busy at home also Having heardor guessed at Colonel 
Conyer’s *‘ foolish” attachment to Catherine, she wrote and 
invited him to make up a party of his own friends, and come 
down and spend Christmas with her. And the gallant offi- 
cer, delighted with this quintessence and perfection of confi- 
dence and hospitality—this carte blanche to be filled up at 
his own pleasure, wrote and most gratefully accepted the in- 
vitation for himseif and “ friends.” 


b24 CATILERINE. 


CHAPTER XXVIL. 


CATHERINE. 
Now has descended a serener }.our —KeEatTs. 


CoLoneL Conyers exercised tact and discretion in ayail 
ing himself of the privilege granted him by Georgia. In 
consideration of the recent affliction of the family, he made 
up a very quiet and appropriate party—namely, the lady’s 
father, the artist, a pale young clergyman who was suffering 
for country air, and the wife and sister of the latter. 

After his arrival at White Cliffs, Mrs. Georgia gave him 
every opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with Cath- 
erine, and every encouragement to persist in his suit. Girls, 
she said, were often whimsical, and Catherine was especially 
shy, but disposed to think highly of her suitor, and well 
worth the trouble of perseverance. Colonel Conyers there- 
upon grew importunate, and Catherine became distressed at 
his persistance, and announced her intention of returning to 
Hardbargain. When her lover heard this, his grief seemed 
unbounded—he had so long counted on success, so long been 
deceived by Mrs. Georgia’s assurances, and by Catherine’s 
gentleness of denial, that now when his hopes were quite 
overthrown, he became passionate and vehement in his de- 
monstrations of sorrow. His trouble affected Catherine very 
deeply. She went and sat down by him, and laid her han 
upon his shoulder, and said, in her gentle sympathetic 
tones— : 

“Do not grieve so; indeed I am not worth so much love 
or so much regret—indeed I am not—I am a poor girl, very 
ignorant of society, very full of weakness and error.” 

“© Oh, Catherine! Catherine! that is nothing to the pur 
pose! You are what you are, and I adore you! Do not 
maake me wretched .” 

“ Heaven knows I do not wish to! Iam your friend-- 


CATHERINE. $25 


wmdeed Tam. I would do anything in the world to give you 
peace, indeed 1: would—except—” 

““ Hxcept love me, proud girl!” 

“¢Proud? No, I am not proud. Why should I be! 
Do not mock me! Indeed I feel that you have conferred 
che greatest honor upon me in your preference. An offer of 
ais hand is the highest mark of respect and confidence a man 
ean give a woman; the world would think it higher still, 
coming from one of your rank to one of mine. I myself 
should in any case be proud of your regard, only- ” 

“Well? «Only? ” 

‘Only I feel so grieved to see you look so sorrowfully ; 
but—” 

«¢ Well, my dear girl, well! but what ?” 

She paused, a slight blush suffused her cheek—she ga- 
thered courage and went on to say— 

“JT do not know why I should not speak anything that 
may be upon my heart, at whatever cost to my natural feel- 
ings, if the hearing of it will do good to any human being. 
Yes! I will speak, for your sake. I do not fear to speak, for 
I have perfect confidence in you. Listen then, Colonel 
Conyers, dear friend. You are not the only one who has 
missed earthly happiness. I think it must be written in the 
book of fate, that we. may not have those whom we love too 
deeply—in other words, that we may not have idols. It seems 
to me, that notwithstanding all other troubles, it would make 
us too happy, in an existence designed chiefly for trial and 
probation.” 

«‘ That is a sad, strange, despairing sentiment, for one so 
young !” 

“No, not despairng—for if we may not have joy, there 
remain the peace and cheerfulness found in duty. And if 
we may not have the love of the heart’s idol, there remain 
the affection of relatives, the esteem of friends, the love of 
God, and the hope of Heaven.” 

“Catherine, you have loved. Tell me about it my 
child.” 

“‘ J intended to tell you about it. It is the best proof of 
entire confidence and esteem that I can give you. It will 
show you how highly I value you, and it will assure you also, 
of the utter impossibility of getting a heart that is not mine 
to give—if it were worth giving.” 

She paused in great embarrassment, her cheeks were sul- 


® 


326 CATHERINE. 


fused with blushes, yet she scemed resolved to proceed. As 
ife to assist ber, he said— 

“This being whom you deify with your love, my child! 
what a splendid, what a magnificent nature he must have! 
what transcendant personal attractions! what an intellect 
what a heart! Is it not so? tell me!” 

“ Ah! no; you are mistaken; these things excite admisa- 
tion and wonder, they do not of themselves win affection. - 
Oh, no! he of whom you speak, is not so handsome as you 
ure; he has no more mind than you have, and not so much. 
neart—even J admit that.” 

‘And yet you love him, and can love him.” 

“Hven so—do you wonder at it? Have not you passed 
by women—handsome, graceful, accomplished—to fix upon 
a plain country girl like me?” 

“Oh, but not women with your candor, purity and strength 
of mind. Oh, Kate! what depths of truth and innocence 
you have revealed in the very confession you have made me! 
Who else but yourself dared make such a revelation ?” 

Catherine looked up at the speaker in doubt. 

“Go on, dear girl. Tell me that this man adores you, 
and I will never, while I live, trouble you with myself 
again.” 

«“ Ah, no! it was nothing like that which I set out to tell — 
you. Ah, no! I only wished to let you know—that your 
case of disappointed affection is not solitary—that I too have 
missed life’s crowning joy—the love of one I love. He does 
not even notice me now. I never permit myself to dream 
that he will ever love me. Yet I would like to live with him, 
to serve him-—myself unknown, unnoticed, if I might only 
be near him. I envy the waiting-maids and men, and even 
the dogs, who are full-feasted every day, with the presence 
for which my heart starves. I would like to give my life to 
his service, but I'am unnecessary to his smallest need. Well' 
I cannot do him any good; but I serve one who is dear to 
him, and so I stay the hunger of my heart. Please do not 
think ill of me for telling you all this. It would grieve me 
to have you think any evil of me. I esteem you, and want 
your esteem. I have done some viclence to my instincts in 
telling you this. Do not think ill of me for doing so. I 
only do it that you may know you are not the only one in 
ais world who is not happy.” 

“Think WW of you, Catherine! Do anything but adore 








CATHERINE. SOT 


ai mourn your loss forever—if lose you I must— on, 
Teaven !” 

“‘ This life is a tragedy—for always that which is dearest. 
is lost in it, and it ends in death. The closing scene is the 
corpse, the shroud, the coffin—and the curtain drops upon 
the grave—all beyond is hidden—except to the eye of faith. 
My experience of life has been all darkness, clouds and storm 
—and the transient gleams of gladness or of hope have been 
—not like the sunshine, but like the lightning. Yet through 
nll the grief, and gloom, and the tempting doubt, the § still, 
small voice’ of God’s spirit has spoken to my soul, and com- 
forted me.” 

“Oh, Catherine, my child! that I could make your life all 
sunshine—that you would let me try—I do believe I could 
make you happy.” 

Catherine shook her head, slowly, with a sad smile, say- 
ing— 

? Weall believe that! Weall think that in ws only is vested 
the power of making those we love happy. It is because we 
know that we are willing, anxicus to do more for them than 
any other person would! Itisafond error. Our efforts— 
our greatest sacrifices are often needless, as we ourselves are 
nothing to our gods of flesh.” 

« Am I nothing—nothing to you, then ?” 

«You are my dear and honored friend.” 

“Oh, Catherine, I could make your life happy! Nay, 
but do not look incredulous—I know I could. My love is 
not selfish, like that of most other men. It is perfectly dis- 
interested. It only asks to serve you. It only desires to see 
you at ease. Dear Kate, you have told me all on your heart 
—you might lay that heart, with all its burden of unrequited 
affection, upon my bosom, and I would comfort, and cherish, 
and sustain it, until I should win its love all to myself.” 

Again, and more mournfully, the girl shook her head- - 

«Do not pursue this subject, Colonel Conyers. Dear 
friond, by dwelling upon our wild wishes, they grow to seem 
?» 5es, and probabilities, and certainties. In my youth—” 

«In ‘your youth’? How many years ago was that, Cathe- 
‘ine ?”? 

“Strange' —but at eighteen, I really feel no longer 
young.”’ 

“Yet it is not winter, but a wintry spring, that chills 
your young life. That isnot uncommon. Spring—the spring 


323 — CATHERINE. 


of hope, tne spring of joy, the spring of life will open indeed 
by-and-by, and be all the warmer and brighter for its late 
ness—and my Catherine shall feel younger—but for increases 
wisdom—-at twenty-five, then she does now at eighteen—thai 
lot is for her—whosesoever treasure she may be. But what 
was she going to say happened in her long passed youth ?” 

Catherine smiled, and said— 

«« Well, then—when life was newer and fresher, believing 
—as [ do now—all the promises of the Bible—and saying—- 
as I do now—that the days of miracles are not passed, and 
never will be so, until the days of God’s ommipotence and 
man’s faith is passed, I used to say that I would pray for 
what I wanted, though the granting of my prayer should 
seem to involve an impossibility. But now, later in life, I 
have learned a better lesson still, from the example of my 
Master. He might have saved Himself by a miracle, but He 
chose rather to endure the cross and the shame, for the work- 
ing out of His Father’s will and purpose. God has a pur- 
pose and a will in every—the humblest life. And now, for 
all other vain and childish petitions, I substitute the words 
of the Saviour—* Not My will—but Thine, be done.’ ” 

“Catherine, you must be happy, even in this world. You 
are so good. You must be made happy in the end.” 

«Ah, I should be sorry to set up the plea of goodness— 
when I see so many people so much better than | am, suffer 
so deeply. It is too often represented that goodness is re- 
warded in this world—but, oh! how can any one remember 
the life and death of a thousand martyrs, and the crucifixion 
of the Saviour, and not feel that it is not so—and not feel 
that the reverse is often so!” 

“Oh, Catherine, that is a very gloomy doctrine, id I will 
_ not believ it! There is a hopeful text of Scripture that 
comes into my mind—‘ Godliness is profitable in all things, 
having the promise of the life that now is, and that which is 
to come.’ It is the clouds of your wintry spring that make 
everything look so gloomy to you!” 

“It is nota gloomy doctrine! Oh, no! not gloomy, by 
all the hope and illumining of the glorious Resurrection and 
Ascension.” 


WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 829 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


WINTER EVENINGS AT THE ARM. 


Oh, Winter, ruler of tie inverted year, 

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, 

And dreaded as thou art. 

I crown thee king of intimate delights, 

Fire-side enjoyments, homestead happiness, 

And all the comforts that the lowly roof 

Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 

Of long, uninterrupted evening, know.—Cowprr. 


CATHERINE returned to Hardbargain on Christmas Eve. 
[t was a clear, cold, crisp afternoon, and the level sun threw 
a glistening, yellow lustre, like powdered gold dust, over the 
erusted surface of the snow-clad earth And as Kate’s little, 
rough-coated pony stepped freely out over the ground, life 
and hope and joy tided back to her heart, giving bloom to 
her cheeks, light to her eyes, and elasticity to all her mo- 
tions. She was very glad indeed to find herself on her way 
to the farm, and about to exchanze the feverish, exciting 
atmosphere of White Cliffs, and the disturbing proximity of 
Georgia, for the long, calm days, and long, calm evenings 
with Mrs. Clifton, at the farm-house. She reached her des- 
tination at dusk. Mrs. Clifton met the girl with a smile of 
pleasure, and welcomed her with a kiss of affection. Then 
she conducted her into the parlor, where she made her sit 
down by the fire, while she removed her bonnet and shawl. 
Next she summoned Henny, and gave orders that tea should 
be served immediately, and a fire kindled in Miss Catherine’s 
room, as the young lady was fatigued, and would wish to 
retire early. There was in the manner of the lady upon 
this evening, and from this evening, a maternal tenderness 
and solicitude, very soothing and delightful to Catherine. 
This was so epparent to the domestics, that they began to 
deport themselves towards the maiden’ with the deference 
due to the daughter of the house. 

And how calmly and cheerfully the winter days passed 


330 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 


There was the carly rising, and the early breakfast, in the 
warm, bright, back parlor, where the morning sun shone in. 
There was the leisurely talk over the meal, about the occu- 
pations, which were also the amusements of the day. After 
breakfast, came the ride around the farm, in the course of 
which every field and barn and granary was inspected, and 
every negro quarter visited. And during these rides, Mrs 
Clifton gave Catherine much information relating to agricul 
tural matters. 

“For, my dear,” she said, some day you may be a 
planter’s wife, and have all these things to look after, while 
your husband is in the public service, absent with his regi- 
ment, or at the legislature.” To which Catherine ventured 
no reply. And then came dinner, and the short afternoon 
nap, and tea, and the long, serene evening by the fireside, 
employed in needle-work, enlivened by rational, cheerful 
conversation, and occasionally varied by music or reading, 
and finally ended by family prayer and bed. 

Mrs. Clifton and Catherine never, never wearied of 
each other. They had many occupations for hands and 
heads—they were both strong, original thinkers, and above 
all, were both deeply interested in the same being—the 
absentee. 

And now Catherine enjoyed a very dear, but dangerous 
delight, in the perusal of Major Clifton’s letters of travel. 
These letters arrived about two in a month. And, ah! the 
evenings, when they came, were festivals indeed to the re-. 
eluse lady and the maiden. Often when one was brought in, 
Mrs. Clifton reclining, through weakness, upon the sofa, 
shading her eyes with her hand, would say, * Break the seal 
aud read it to me, dear Catherine.” And Kate would do 
so—drawing delicious draughts of perilous pleasure from the 
poetic and artistic spirit that pervaded every sentiment, nar- 
rative and description in the epistle. And on these ‘long, 
quiet winter evenings, very often the conversation turned 
upon the absent son—the dear topic always introduced by 
his mother. It seemed as if Mrs. Clifton wished to make 
Catherine thoroughly acquainted with his character and dis 
position—with his faults and weaknesses, as well as with his 
virtues and powers. 

«‘ My son has his serious imperfections, like other men, of 
course—though your eyes contradict me, Catherine; if I, 
his partial mother, see them, they exist, you may depend 


WINYER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 881 


Archer is no demigod, my dear, m the estimation of anv 
one, but—-weil, no matter—don’t blush so—I am his mother, 
and I love him, t 0», and think highly of him, of course, but 
I a knowledge he ig no angel, Kate, and I should be sorry 
you should take him tor one—disappointment would come 
of it, my dear. He is proud, jealous, and suspicious as a 
Spaniard, and while under the influence of these feelings, he 
is reserved and sullen as an Indian—yet these faults of cha- 
racter have been so transfigured in my dear Kate’s affection, 
that they have actually seemed virtues—the pride, jealousy 
and suspicion have seemed high sense of honor and intellectual 
acumen—and the reserve and sullenness—dignity! Is it not 
so, my dear ?” 

Kate’s eyes lighted, and her cheeks flushed highly, but 
not with bashfulness—with an emotion that was swelling at 
her heart—and carried away from self-consciousness by en- 
thusiasm, she answered— 

“©Oh, madam! I know what I would say to you, if I only 
knew how to say it. Heaven sends divine thoughts and 
feelings into my heart and brain sometimes, but they cannot 
pass thence into words—they are choked up perhaps by sin 
or imperfection. Such a feeling I have now—heavenly light, 
if [ could only refract it—’’? She paused an instant, uncon- 
scious that the lady was looking intently upon her. Then 
she spoke again, slowly, in a kind of calm fervor— Real 
affection—I do not mean passion or imagination—but real 
love does never invest its object with unreal virtues !— 
never !—all faults are the excess or the deficiency of some 
virtue—well, real love sees its object not perhaps as he is at 
his worst—not even perhaps so evil as he is even at his best, 
but as he may become !—as he surely will become, if that 
real affection continues faithful to its trust. Ah! how 
strong that conviction is im my heart—how weak upon my 
lips!” 

i. I understand you, Catherine, and may your true affection 
be the divine alchemy that shall transmute all Archer Clif- 
ton’s faults into virtues.” At this personal reply, Catherine's 
eyes fell and her cheeks burned with sudden self-recollection, 
and for weeks after this she could not recall the conversation 
without deep blushes. 

More and more freely as the weeks passed by did Mrs. 
Clifton talk to Kate of her son and his peculiarities, and the 
best way to meet them. 


392 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 


‘You know, my dear Catherine, the apostle, in order to 
win ;roselytes, made himself all things to all men. Archer 
is proud, and my dear girl must raise herself a little out o* 
that humility of manner which is very distasteful to the 
haughty, except when exhibited towards themselves, when 
t naturally becomes very acceptable.” This style of con- 
versation, addressed to her for weeks and months, was at 
once very pleasing and very painful to Kate. It was sweet, 
it was dear beyond measure, to be considered in this near 
relation to her beloved, to be addressed daily and hourly as 
if she possessed the power of rendering his future life better 
and happier, and so addressed by his own mother, too, but it 
was also humiliating to be supposed to presume on the future 
esteem and effection of one who had never addressed the lan- 
guage of love to her. Often she thought of begging Mrs. 
Clifton to desist from this style of conversation; but a cer- 
tain bashfulness, a deep respect for the lady, a distrust of 
herself and of her own experience, and the childish thought 
that Major Clifton might have entrusted to his mother an in- 
tention that he never confided to herself its object, and the 
delight of living in this blessed illusion, and the fear of 
breaking the charm, kept her silent for a long time, during 
which Mrs. Clifton gradually fell into the manner of con- 
sidering her and speaking to her as her son’s future wife. 
All at once one day it suddenly struck Kate that Mrs. Clifs 
ton might be the victim of a mistake, and under the impres- 
sion that some understanding or engagement existed between 
herself and Major Clifton, and that her own silence and 
seeming acquiesence had served to confirm this error. And 
this very natural and rational thought fell upon the girl like 
a thunderbolt, utterly blasting and destroying all her beau- 
tiful hopes, and covering her face with the blushes of deep 
humiliation. She felt that she must undeceive Mrs. Clifton 
immediately. So when they sat together at the werk-table. 
befure the evening fire, and the lady spoke of her sen, say- 
ing, among other things— 

«‘'The most unhappy trait in his character is his tendency 
to suspicion, my love. Be straight-forward with him, Cathe- 
rine, never have a secret from him, not even one touching a 
little pleasant surprise, be perfectly fraux and open-hearted 
with him, and, alas! even that course may not always save 
you from suffering by his besetting 3in, and when it does not, 
Catherine, there is nothing left for you but patience and 


WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 833 


trust. You see, on Archer’s behalf, I expect a great deal 
of you, my love, Jike all mothers-in-law, I suppose.” 

Catherine’s face was bent over her work; ashamed of her 
supposed mistake, ashamed of the weakness that now choked 
her voice, she remained silent for some time. At length, 
gathering a false impression from her long continued silence, 
Mrs. Clifton said— 

“‘ Do I hope too much from you, Kate, my love ?” 

With an effort, Catherine controlled her emotion, looked 
up and replied, steadily— 

‘¢ No, no, dear Mrs. Clifton, you do not demand too much 
of me. As far as my will and my power, as far as the grace 
of God aids me, I will serve Major Clifton with the affection 
and fidelity of a sister and a servant, but I have not the 
smallest reason to suppose that he will ever admit me to a 
friendship sufficiently intimate to make it possible for me to 
affect his character and conduct in any way, even if I should 
presume to wish it.” 

My dear Kate, Archer’s wife will be his friend, com- 
panion and counsellor—he never would be happy with a mere 
housekeeper or parlor ornament, however beautifully accom- 
plished and amiable—it is therefore he will prize my dear 
Catherine’s clear, strong mind and proud heart—-she will be 
adinitted to his closest thoughts and his noblest counsels, do 
not doubt it.” 

“¢Oh, madam, you do not comprehend me yet, I see. How 
deeply rooted your mistake must be, dear lady! Oh, how 
shall [ tell you? Indeed you are in error if you suppose— 
if you suppose that—” Kate stopped short and burst into 
tears. 

Mrs. Clifton encircled her waist with her arm, and 
said— 

“Come, Kate, stop all this blushing and weeping. Let 
us be confidential, you and I, as mother and daughter should 
be, for you are as my own daughter, Kate, and am I not a 
tether to you?” 

Oh, yes! yes! dear lady!” said Catherine, taking her 
nand, and pressing it to her bosom, and covering it with 
kigses.  « Oh, yes, you are indeed like a mother to me, if I 
were ouly worthy to be your daughter! and I love and honor 
you more than ever a mother was loved and honored 1 in this 
vorld before, I do believe !” 

“Then let there be no reserve between us, dear Kate. 

21 


334 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 


Let us be open with each other, as parent and child, whose 
loves, and hopes, and wishes are the same. have been 
plain with you al] along, only gradually unfolding your 
future, not to alarm your shyness—and to win your cunfi- 
dence. I have longed for this confidence—this perfect open- 
ness between us—that we might talk with more intelligence, 
and with more comfort—-and I have courted it by my own 
frankness; but in return for all my candor, Catherine has 
shown me only reserve and blushes. Will she be more con- 
filing now 2” 

“ Alas, dearest lady, what can I say to you, but that you 
are greatly mistaken—sadly mistaken-—oh, yes, deed, sadly 
mistaken,” replied Kate, almost weeping again. 

“] am not mistaken in supposing that Catherine loves my 
son. Iam not mistaken in knowing that the fact gives me 
more happiness than anything else in the world. Yet Iwould 
like to hear Kate admit it.” 

“ Well, dearest lady—yes !—down, pride !—if it will give 
you any pleasure to hear it, I must not withhold the confes- 
sion—yes, I do love your son—so much—so much—that it 
will make me an old maid !” 

Mrs. Clifton laughed, a little, low, jolly langh. (The lady 
very seldom laughed, and when she did, it had a strange, ex- 
ceedingly pleasant effect upon the hearer—it was a very 
agreeable surprise, revealing, as it were under that grave, 
stern surface, traces of a mine of wit, humor, fun and mis- 
chief, that must have existed, and frequently sparkled forth, 
ere the sorrow and the seriousness of life smothered and ex- 
tinguished it.) She laughed her little, low, jolly laugh, and 
replied— 

«“ That were a strange effect of love, Catherine ; but trust 
me, it will not be so with Archer’s consent.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Clifton, forgive me for saying again, that you 
are very much mistaken—never, never in his life, has Major 
Clifton bestowed upon me one word, or look, that might be 
misconstrued by the vainest woman into a preference !” 

“ Well, Kate! I know that! I know that he has never 
addressed you on the subject. But 1 know that he will do 
so. For he loves you, Catherine, and has loved you from the 
first hour he ever saw you—even from the—the night he sat 
and studied you in your brother’s cabin. And it is just as 
certain that you will be his wife, as that you both will live to 
marry. So, dearest, let there be no more reserve between 


WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 835 


us—-consider this marriage sure, as it really is—(so far as any 
future event is sure)—and let me talk freely, for my time ana 
opportunity is short.” 

Catherine raised her eyes to the sallow—almost cadaverous 
face of the lady, and a conviction of the truth and reality 
of what she predicted, forced itself upon her, with a sharp 
pang. 

“Now, dear Catherine, I did not ask you for that troubled 
look! Will your heart ache because a dry leaf drops in the 
autumn, rather than hangs shivering on the tree through half 
the winter? But, dear child, I allude to this coming event, 
not to cast its ‘shadow’ over you, but to explain why I wish 
now to use these days in making you as conversant with the 
idiosyncracies of your future companion, as only years of 
married life could do, and to prevent years, perhaps, of mis- 
understanding and sorrow. There is something dreadful in 
the discovery of unsuspected faults, after marriage—and 
something very, very mournful in the disappointment of the 
trusting affection, and in the saddened efforts of the heart 
to adjust itself to the cireumstances—efforts that in one case 
out of ten, perhaps, succeed. But if the worst is known be- 
fore marriage, the man or the woman may consider wel] 
whether they have the strength of heart to conquer their own 
faults, and bear with those of their companion. That you 
would do all this for your husband, Kate, I am convinced. 
I only talk now to smooth your path of duty.” The lady 
here released Catherine from the embrace in which she had 
held her through this conversation, and desired her to ring 
for the servants to come in to prayers. 

Catherine, as had been her custom for several weeks past—- 
upon account of Mrs. Clifton’s weakness—conducted the 
evening devotions. 

When prayers were over, and the servants dismissed, 
Catherine attended Mrs. Clifton to her chamber, and assis.ved 
her with affectionate care until she had retired to bed. Then, 
after receiving the lady’s parting kiss, she hastened into Ler 
own chamber, threw herself upon tle bed, and gave way to 
a long-pent burst of sorrow. Within the last three years 
Catherine had seen much sickness, death, and bereavement 
—one after another of her associates or relations had faded 
and fallen, and she had mourned their loss ; and her life had 
taken a sombre hue, and sunken into a depressed tone. But 
that this belaed friend, this kind benefactress, this dear, 


3036 WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 


dear companion—this more than mother, sister, a/l to her 
heart—should pass away from the earth and be seen no more’ 
Oh! it brought a sense of desolation that threw a shadow and 
a chill over all the future—over even the bright hopes shining 
in the distance. And then the identity of the love she bore 
mother and son together forced itself upon her heart. And 
she felt that a union with the son could not give her perfect 
content, unless the mother were there to share her love and 
service, and to participate in their happiness. Without that 
mother’s presence, their plan of life would be unfinished— 
their circle of love incomplete. And oh! came the sharp, 
agonizing question, how could she ever bear to lose the light, 
and warmth, and strength, imparted daily, hourly, from that 
dear face—that face which had never looked on her but in 
affection—that face, the very image of Clifton’s own, except 
that it was sweeter, holier, and never, never harsh—hcw 
could she ever bear to lose her sweet resting place on that 
more than maternal bosom—that bosom on which she coulé 
ever lay her aching head, or aching heart, in perfect peace 
and confidence, sure of being understood, sure of being sym- 
pathized with? Oh! life would be darkened indeed when 
she should pass away. ‘The sense of sorrow was so sharp, so 
agonizing, that the girl could have thrown herself upon the 
floor—could have wrestled with Heaven, in wild prayer, that 
this life might be saved, and this sharp anguish spared her. 
But Catherine was habitually self-restrained, and she bore 
this mental anguish as she would have endured severe physi- 
cal pain—in silence, in patience, until her soul was subdued 
to the meekness of resignation. And then prayer brought 
comfort. 

And she met the lady in the morning with a cheerful coun 
tenance. And they spent the day as usual. 

So passed the winter and the spring. Though Mrs. Clif- 
ton failed visibly from day to day, she still continued her 
rides around the farm, and her general supervision of the 
household and of agricultural affairs, and her instructions t» 
Qatherine. Her people, who well knew the nearly hopeless 
state of her health, foretold that their mistress would keep 
up and out to the very last—and finally die in her chair. 
Indeed, while flesh and blood wasted away, her nervous en- 
ergy seemed unimpaired, and her cheerfulness was undimin- 
ished. She talked of her approaching departure as caluly 
and “leasantly as she would have talked of going to Rich- 


WINTER EVENINGS AT THE FARM. 3837 


mond. Never obtruding the subject, however, unless neces- 
sity demanded its introduction. 

The serenity and cheerfulness of the lady affected Cathe- 
erine very beneficially—* familiarizing” to her feelings the 
future, immortal life. Catherine endeavored to persuade her 
to have a physician. 

“Why, so I would, Kate, if I had any specific disease; bnt 
when all the frame is wearing out together very slowly and 
quietly, why call ina doctor to disturb the harmony of natu- 
ral decay, and painfully build up one portion of the sinking 
frame at the expense of another? Why not fade and fall 
easily, as all else in benign nature does ?” 

Catherine next suggested writing for Major Clifton to 
hasten home. 

‘¢ Why, my child? Why, because Iam going the common 
road, should others be hurried.and worried? Everything in 
blessed nature and Divine Revelation teaches us a sweeter 
lesson. No—Archer set out for a twelve months’ tour ; let 
him complete it. He will return this autumn. Quite time 
enough, Catherine. I shill live till then, and longer. I can 
calculate the progress of my body’s failing, and the duration 
of my life, with almost mathematical precision. I shall live 
to mcet Archer, and to see you married, Catherine—and te 
leave you willing to survive me and be happy without me. 
And why not, dear? for shall I not be happier still ?” 

And so, in sweet mutual confidence, in cheerful resigna- 
tion, and in patient hore, the summer passed, ane s«¢ump 
arrived in its glory. 


THE RETURN. 


CHAPTER XXIX, 
THE RETURN. 


Come home !—there is a sorrowing breath 
In music since ye went, 

And fragrant flower scents wander by 
With mournful memories bient. 

The tones of every household voice 
Are grown more sad and deep— 

And longing for thee wakes a wish 
To turn aside and weep. 


Oh, ve beloved! come home !—the hore 
Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth-light and of song 
Returns and ye are gone! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 
On the forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderne 
That deepens into gloom.—Mars #57 aN8, 


NotwiTHsTANDINnG all her hab‘ta-, calmness and cheerful 
patience, Mrs. Clifton began to grorr uneasy at her son’s pro- 
tracted stay. He had been abse.t », yearand a month. And 
even pow, instead of setting ont ca his return, he only wrote 
of cowsg home soon. At cre time he was at Vienna, at 
anoth-s at Berlin, then at .e fiague, progressing, indeed, 
but very, very slowly turer is England and Liverpool, from 
which port he intended sn eabark. Every letter that came 
from haa at this period, ves opened and read with visible un- 
easiness by his mother. «At length the glad tidings came, a 
letter from the mid-os a1, brought by a swift sailing packet. 
boat that had epoker. me vessel in which he had embarked. 
He was hasteaisz heme, and might now be expected at any 
hour. The uewaz coutained in his letter excited the invalid so 
much upon th: evening of its reception, that she passed a 
sleepless n‘ght, ».d rose the next morning weaker than she 
nad ever been 2 fore; so weak, indeed, that she was obliged, 
in coming duywn stairs, to lean on the arms of Catherine and 
her maid fcc support. And when she reached the parlor, 


THE RETURN. 839 


she was compelled to recline in an easy-chair, propped up by 
pillows, and with her feet supported by a foot-cushion. But 
her cheerfulness was undiminished. She gave many direc. 
tions as to the adjustment and adornment of the room, and 
the preparation of certain dainties. Lastly she called Cathe- 
rine to her side, and took her hand. Catherine did not ap= 
pear to the best advantage, with her plain, dark gingham 
dress, and her chestnut hair divided simply above her fore- 
head , Tippling in tiny wavelets around her broad temples, and 
gathered into a twist behind. This plainness of style did not 
become her strongly marked features. And the lady saw it, 
for she gazed thoughtfully upon the girl awhile, and then 
- lifting her hand, disengaged a portion of her tresses from the 
comb, and let them fall, turning into natural ringlets down 
her cheeks, saying— 

<¢ There, Catherine, when hair curls naturally and volun- 
tarily, it is certain that the face it belongs to requires it so, 
and that it should be permitted to follow its nature, for na- 
ture does all things well. Why don’t you always wear your 
nair so? It is so much prettier.” 

“< Because, dear lady, I never thought it of any importance 
now my hair was fixed, so that it looked neat. But I will 
wear it this way, if it pleases you.” 

‘It does. Your face is not a classic one, dear Kate, and 
none but a classic face can bear that attic symplicity of style. 
Your countenance is a very noble one, Kate, but its very 
nobility is hard and stern, without the softening shadow of 
these ringlets nature has bestowed upon you. There now, 
look in the mirror, my little Oliver Cromwell, your face is 
much more womanly than before.” 

Catherine found it so. The soft, bright, drooping curls 
shaded and rounded her large, square forehead into beautiful 
proportion to her other features, and softened the expression 
of the whole. No girl but is pleased to see herself improved 
in beauty, and it was with a bright blush, half of pleasure, 
half of modesty, that the maiden returned to the lady’s side. 

“ Now, dear Kate, you must leave off that dingy gingham, 
and wear white wrappers in the morning. It is early in the 
season, and you can wear white a month longer yet, and by 
the end of that time, I suppose, the world will expect you .o 
wear black. You have no white wrappers though, my dear ?” 

«¢ No, madam, I never-had one.” 

* Well, you have two white cambric dresses, without orna- 


340 THE RETURN. 


ment, they will do for morning dresses. Do me the kindness 
to wear them. Nay, now, Catherine, my dear, no hesitatiun, 
I will have it so. Go at once and put on one of them.” 

KKate complied, and in a short time returned to the parlor 
—by this change in the style of her toilet, almost trans- 
figured, yet without the loss of her noble characteristics, 
One thought troubled the maiden, the question —What 
would Clifton think of this? How would he take it? Would 
he suspect that she had dressed for his eyes? If lh did his 
suspicions would be well-founded. And the consciotsness of 
this truth, suffused with blushes the cheeks of the i Ingenuous 
girl, and heightened all her beauty. 

There was no certainty of Major Clifton’s advent that day 
—he might come any day, but nevertheless they hoped for 
and expected his arrival. By a change in the hours, the 
stage now reached L———— at noon. ‘And Mrs. Clifton had 
ordered dinner in the full expectation of having her son’s 
2zompany at that meal. «Nor were their hopes destined to 
disappointment. <A little after one o’clock, the carriage that 
had been sent to L———— to meet the stage, returned and 
drove up to the door. And Archer Clifton alighted from it, 
and hastened joyfully into the house. Mrs. C lifton arose to_ 
meet him, but, overpowered by agitation and weakness, she 
sank back into her seat. Her son was befure her in an 
instant, and had clasped her in his arms, and pressed her to 
his breast, and kissed her fondly many times, and sat her 
back in her chair to feast his eyes upon her beloved face and 
form, before he noticed how cadaveérous, how death-like, she 
looked ; then a startled expression of surprise and alarm 
sprung into his countenance, and he turned upon Kate, to” 
whom he had not yet spoken, a glance of mingled inquiry, 
anger and reproach. 

_ You find me in poor health, Archer; but not worse, my 
son, than what might have been expected.” 

‘“¢ My dearest mother,” he began, but his voice choked, and 
to conceal the emotion he could not entizely suppress, he 
turned to Catherine and gave her a brother’s greeting in si- 
lence, but at the same time darting into her eyes a look of 
stern rebuke from his own, which seemed to say, ‘ You, at 
least, should have written and informed me of this.?? And 
the suspicions excited by Mrs. Georgia rose darkly in his 
mind, but were repressed again instantly. 

“ Dearest Archer, I am not usually so ill as I seem tes 


THE RETURN. 341 


day. I have never been confined to my bed, or even my 
chair yet. Only to-day and yesterday, the joy of looking for 
you has prevented my taking the usual quantity of sleen. I 
shall be much better to-morrow. Sit down by me and rest, 
und when you are rested, your room is quite ready for you, 
if you wish to change your dress before dinner. Catherine, 
my love, will you go and direct them to serve dinner ?” 

Catherine left the room and gave the necessary commands 
Then she ordered a boy to take Major Clifton’s baggage up 
into his chamber, and went up stairs to show him where to 
put it. In the meantime, Major Clifton, in lookmg upon his 
mother’s wasted form, had lost all self-ecommand, and saying 
hastily that he thought he would change his traveling dress 
at once, hurried out of the room to give vent to a passionate 
sorrow, no longer to be restrained. He ran up stairs, but 
paused upon the first landing. Catherine, in leaving his room, 
' found him leaning upon the balustrades, with his face buried 
in his hands, weeping convulsively. ‘To women, there is 
something really appalling in a man’s tears—we look upon 
them with more than pity—with awe—with something like 
the feeling with which Mary and Martha must have witnessed 
the Saviour’s tears—with deep reverence be it said. Cathe- 
rine would have crept by and slipped down stairs quietly, for 
she had a feeling of self-reproach for having even seen that 
strong outburst of sorrow; but he stood up and seized her 
hand, and drew her towards him, exclaiming— 

«Stop, Catherine! You have seen my weakness! Now, 
tell me why you did not write to me of this? Cruel and selfish 
girl! were you so intent upon your own projects, that you 
could not find time to indite a line to let me know that my 
mother was dying?” | 

Another burst of weeping prevented his hearing Catherine’s 
gentle explanation, that Mrs. Clifton would not permit her 
to write. And Kate was not anxious to exculpate h>rself 
from an unjust charge; indeed, after once giving her little, 
meek explanation, she never thought of it again—she only 
thought of his agony of regret, and only wished to soothe it. 
IIe still held her wrist, unconsciously straining it in the 
strength of his emotion, until it pained her severely. But 
she did not care for that, she did not even feel it; she only 
cared to sce him weep so convulsively, and losing all self- 
onnsciousness, and with it al) reserve, she threw her arm 


842 THE RETURN. 


around him, and dropping her head against him most tenderly, 
most lovingly, she said— 

“Oh, do not grieve so! do not! see how calm and cheer- 
ful she is! Try to emulate her calmness '” 

“J loved her, Kate! I loved her more than ever son loved 
mother before! She was the worth of life to me! I loved 
her more than ever I loved human being! More even than 
I ever loved you, Kate!” 

This was Clifton’s first declaration to Catherine, and a 
strange time, place and circunistances, and a strange method 
of expressing his preference had fallen upon them. I loved 
her more than I ever loved you, Kate !” 

But it did not seem strange to Catherine. It seemed per- 
fectly natural and in order. It did not startle her the least. 
It did not bring back her womanly self-consciousness, for she 
answered, meekly— 

“7 know it—I know you do. And, oh! don’t you know 
that I would willingly give my life for hers, if I could restore 
her, in health, to your affections ?” 

«¢ And yet you did not even write to let me know she wat 
il! Oh! girl! girl! you were much to blame for that! It 
was bitterly wrong.” 

“JT told you, but you did not hear me, that she would not 
permit me to write; she did not wish to give you pain, or to 
interfere with your arrangements for the year.” 

“Catherine, that does not excuse you! Could not your 
own heart have told you how precious, how inestimable to nv 
would have been every hour of her company when her days 
were numbered? Could you not have written to me se- 
cretly ?” 

‘‘ T never did anything secretly in my life. I should never 
nave thought of doing so. Besides, I could not have had a 
secret from her, so open, so frank, so noble as she is. No, I 
proposed to write for you to come home, I entreated permis- 
sion to do so, but she refused to grant it, and I deferred to 
her better judgment. I would not have deceived her for the 
world.” 

‘‘ Then I have been unjust and unkind to you, Catherine, 
but you will pardon me when I tell you—when you see how 
thoroughly weakened and unmanned I am !” 

The gust of sorrow was over, and Kate, with sudden self- 
recollect‘on withdrew herself from him, deeply blushing, ane 


THE RETURN. 843 


hastened down stairs, and the thought of her transient self- 
forgetfulness rendered the girl even shyer than ever. 

He went into his room and refreshed himself with a new 
toilet. And when he entered the parlor, an hour after, ne 
one would have suspected from his handsome, animated face, 
the existence of the sorrow that lay subdued at the bottom of 
his heart. 

They dined together, and after dinner Catherine thought 
it best to retire and leave the mother and son alone to enjoy 
more fully their re-union. When she had left the room— 

«< How pretty and lady-like Catherine is growing, madam,” 
said Major Clifton, looking after her, but addressing his 
mother. 

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Clifton, “lady-like, but not very 
pretty; Kate will never be pretty; but if she be ‘ blessed to 
her mind,’ she will be more, she will be handsome.”’ 

After spending a long afternoon with his mother, Major 
Clifton took temporary leave, and went over to White Cliffs, 
to pay his respects to Mrs. Georgia. Most happily for all 
goncerned, Georgia had just left home for a visit of some 
weeks at ftichmond—ignorant, it is to be supposed, of Major 
Clifton’s arrival. He returned and spent the evening with 
the ladies at Hardbargain. 

The next morning found Mrs. Clifton very much better—and 
in the evening she rode out, accompanied by Major Clifton 
and Catherine. Mrs. Clifton’s cheerfulness infected all the 
party—both upon this evening and afterwards. Her decline 
was so gradual, so painless, that she never took to her bed— 
but when weakest, sat in the easy-chair in the parlor, often 
with a little light knitting in her hands, that she would 
leisurely work upon, or drop into her lap, to be resumed at 
pleasure, while she conversed with Catherine and Major 
Clifton, or listened while one of them read, or both sang. 
There never were more pleasant, serene days, than these of 
the invalid’s gentle decay. It was genial, pensive autumn; 
she fall of the leaf without the house, and the fall of the leaf 
within. 

Catherine was now the housekeeper. She had—through 
the increasing weakness of the lady—so gradually slidden 
into this office, that she scarcely knew at what time its whole 
burden had accumulated upon her. One morning, while 
Catherine was in the store-room giving out meal and bacon 
to the vegroes, Mrs. Clifton and Major Clifton occupied the 


B44 THE RETURN. 


arlor alone. He had been reading to her from Jeremy 
aylor, but seeing that she had dropped her knitting, and 
was sitting back with a look of wear iness, he thought it time 
to desist and close the book 

«© Year mother, you are fatigued ; will you have anything? 
What shall I bring you?” 

“ Nothing, my son. Jam not wearied more than usuat, 
and it will pass in a few minutes.’ 

The lady was silent for a little while, during which Major 

hifton refrained from conversation. And then, after some 
little thought, she raised her eyes until they met his own 
and looking at him full in the face, she asked— 

“When are you going to marry Catherine, Archer ?” 

Major Clifton started violently, and looked at the lady in 
silent astonishment. 

«“ Nay, pray answer me—my question is an earnest one.” 

«© My dear madam, you have taken me by surprise !” 

“‘ Necessary bluntness, Archer.” 

“Very Oliver Cromwellish, madam, my mother.” 

‘You must excuse it, dear Archer. You did not open 
the subject to me, therefore, feeling more anxious upon that 
affair than any other on earth, I am forced to broach it to 
you. But you have not answered my question yet.” 

« Dear madam—what—exactly—was it ?” 

‘¢When are you going to marry Catherine ?” 

«Upon my honor, my dear madam, I have no intention 
of marrying Catherine; nor have I ever given her reason to 
suppose so.” 

«Ah! [ had thought, or rather, I had hoved otherwise,” 
said the lady, relapsing into silence, while Major Clifton 
subsided into painful thought. Again the dark suspicions 
insinuated by Mrs. Georgia, arose in his mind, to be repressed 
again with loathing; and he said indignantly to himself—* It 
is not true! I can never believe her to be an intriguante. 
Georgia is mistaken—Georgia’s grateful and affectionate in- 
terest in my welfare, leads her to unjust suspicions of others. 
Kate is noble-hearted—Kate is true—is truth itself. It 
would be misery to believe otherwise. 

Mrs. Clifton gently interrupted his silent self-communicn, 
by saying— 

“ Well, Archer, since you have no intention whatever of 
marrying Catherine yourself, you can have no reasonable 
greund of ~bjection to her union with another ?”? 


THE RETURN. 845 


He looked up in surprise and anxiety, put soon the 
startled expression subsided into zalinness, and he replied, 
coo]ly— 

“ Catherine’s union with another! Oh! the supposition 
invyoives an impossibility.” 

“[ know you think so, Archer. I know you feel per- 
fectly secure of this sweet girl, and just as easy about her as 
if she were secured to you by all the chains that ckurch and 
state can forge, and that is the reason why you take things 
so coolly, and listen to your pride. ut I tell you that it is 
not as you think. You are not forever secure of Catherine. 
Our moods of mind, and our views of things, change with 
time. And however the maiden may feel or think now, if 
you hesitate for years between your pride and love, she will 
naturally arrive at the conclusion that many a generous 
hearted woman has come to before her, and say to. herself, 
‘Well, I cannot be happy myself, but my life must not, 
therefore, be wasted—I can make some cne else happy,’ and 
deing scorned by one she loves, give herself away to one 
who loves her.” 

Major Clifton started to his feet, with all the dark side of 
nis character uppermost, exclaiming— 

“Let her attempt it! I would stop such a marriage at 
the altar! Catherine is mine, or nobody’s. She could not 
repel my claim.” 

“Dear Archer, sit down; do not excite yourself or me. 
Remember, [ am in a dying state,” said the lady, as the best 
means of calming him. 

“ Dear madam, forgive me—forgive me—but why intro- 
duce this very embarrassing and highly exciting subject? I 
have had conflict enough in my gwn bosom about it. I love 
your favorite, I love her jealously, fiercely —I admit it—but 
there are objections and difficulties, which time, or a new set 
of circumstances, may remove; meanwhile, I could not bear 
to see her snatched from me. But there is time enough—- 
ever. if I should decide upon such a step, there is time’ 
enough. Kate is very young yet.” 

« But you are not very young, Archer.” 

“| know it, dear madam. I have arrived at that age at 
which men do not make imprudent marriages for love.” 

‘“ But when they too offen make unhappy marriages of 
eonvenience. Dear Archer, it is a false and sinful principle 
that keeps you and Cath-rine apart. Will you spoil two 


346 THE RETURN. 


lives by your pride? Your hesitation between inclination 
and prejudice, weakens you and destroys her.” 

“<< Prejudices,’ dear madam! Well, I suppose they are 
prejudices, but just think of the horror of having Carl Kava- 
nagh, the farm laborer, for a brother-in-law, and being called 
‘uncle’ by his ragged progeny !” 

“ Oh, Archer, your inhumanity shocks me—they are hu- 
man creatures, after all—this Carl and his family.” 

«“ And don’t you see besides, madam, that if I should 
marry Catherine, and introduce her into society, the first 
question would be, ‘ Who is she? and the answer by some 
good-natured friend, ‘ The sister of one of his farm laborers,’ 
would expose us to contempt, if it did not rule us out of 
good company.” 

«‘ Archer! Archer! can it be that you weigh these falsi 
ties with the deep realities of life?” 

<< Tt is a deplorable thing, indeed, that a girl of such noble 
nature should come of such ignoble parentage.” 

“‘ No! it is a congratulatory thing !—or would be so, if it 
were not such a usual thing! Archer, you will find more 
moral werth, and it may be more mental worth, among the 
so-called lower classes, than among the higher; for instance, 
umong the men, look at some of their brows, of Shaksperian 
height and breadth—think what they would be with cultiva- 
tion! And I tell you, with all their disadvantages, the lower 
classes will give to our republic the greatest of her future 
great men.’’* 

Major Clifton remained in deep thought for awhile, and 
then taking the hand of the lady, said— 

‘¢ My dear mother, the objections that I have advanced 
are those that have arisen in my mind, from time to time, 
giving me much pain. I wished to hold them up before my 
sclf, as I have just done, in order to see what they really 
consisted of, and looked like. I have seen the worst ot 
them, and in their ugliest light, and they will not deter me 
from taking to my heart the girl I love. I have weighed 
them, and the whole mass is light in the balance with my 
need of Catherine. I will marry her. I will go and tell 
her so now. And the ceremony shall be performed whenever 
you think proper.” 





* The history of mst prominent men of the day verihes tne predic 
tion. 


THE RETURN. 347 


“Whenever Kafe thinks proper, my dear Archer,” replied 
the lady, smiling. 

At this moment a servant entered and delivered a note to 
Major Clifton. It was from Mrs. Georgia, announcing her 
return to White Cliffs, and hegging the company of Major 
Clifton to tea that evening. 


348 BETROTHAL. 


CHAPTER XXX, 


BETROTHAL. 


Twas thy high purity of sou., 
Thy thought revealing eye, 
That conquered all my pride of heart, 
Thou wanderer from the sky,_Ww G. CLarr. 


MzJor Crirton held the note between his finger and 
thumb, in a fit of abstraction, while a pleasant, contemplative 
gwile dwelt on his face. 

«‘ Well, are you not going to answer it?’ asked Mrs. Clif- 
ton, adding, “* The servant waits.” 

“Oh! answer it! yes! what is it about?” he exclaimed, 
starting out of his reverie, and glancing at the note again, 
Then he arose, penned a hasty excuse, and delivering it to 
the messenger, dispatched him. Returning from this busi- 
ness, he said, ** No, I cannot leave home this evening; since 
I have come to a decision, I wish to have a good, confidential 
talk with my little Kate. How much I have to say to her, 
how much to draw from her, if I can. What a prison de- 
livery of thought and emotion it must be on both sides, if I 
can get her to talk! But she is so shy, except when under ~ 
some strong, disinterested feeling for another. Move her 
sympathies, and she forgets herself and loses all reserve ; 
otherwise—she is so shy.” 

“Yes, very, very shy, to you. Kate’s heart and brain 
are sealed volumes to you. It will require the easy intimacy 
of long, domestic companionship, to find out all her excel- 
iencies. Her husband will love and esteem her far more 
dearly and highly than ever lover has done—but hush, here 
she comes.” 

The door opened, and Catherine entered, from her morn- 
ing’s household duties, with her little basket of keys hanging 
on her arm. 

“Come hither, dear Kate,” said Major Clifton, holding 
eut his hand. Catherine put her little basket in its place, 


BETROTHAL. 349 


and quietly went to his side. He encircled her waist with 
his arm, and holding both her hands captive in his own, 
looked fondly in her face till she dropped her eyes in con- 
fusion, and then he said, “‘ Dear Kate, my mother here, whs 
loves you almost as much as I do, if that were possible, wants 
to know when you will make us both happy; by becoming my 
wife and her daughter.” 

He paused for an answer, never removing his eyes from 
their gaze upon her glowing cheek. 

«Yes, I am very anxious to know what day you will give 
yourself to us entirely, dear child!” said Mrs. Clifton, and 
she also paused for a reply. 

Catherine, in extreme confusion, glanced from one to the 
other, and finaily dropped her eyes again. 

«Come, dearest Kate, it is but a word—the name of some 
day in the week whispered very low,” said Major Clifton, in 
her ear. 

<¢ Yes, let it be soon; let it be within a week, dear child 
My time is short, Kate, and I wish to bless your marriage 
before I go hence. You know I told you that I could caleu- 
late the progress of decay, and the length of life with some 
accuracy, and I tell you now that my days are num- 
bered.” 

— Come, Kate, if you cannot speak, give me one of your 

short, quick nods. Come, this is Saturday—shall we be 
married to-morrow t—next day ?—Tuesday ?—Wednesday ? 
—Thursday ?” Catherine, whose heart had been filling all 
this time, now burst into tears. Ife drew her head upon his 
shoulder, where she sobbed awhile, until he stooped and 
whispered, “‘ Dear Catherine, try to calm yourself—do you 
not see how you excite our mother? there, lift up your head, 
and go to her; and both of you together arrange all these 
little matters as mother and daughter should, and she will 
lut me know the result,” and tenderly withdrawing his arm, 
he passed her round before him, and stood her beside Mrs. 
Clifton’s easy-vhair, and arose and took his hat and left the 
room, with the same happy, half-contemplative smile upon 
his lips. Kate sank down by the side of Mrs Clifton, and 
dropping her head upon the lady’s lap, wept afresh. The 
gentle invalid put her hands upon the maiden’s shoulders 
earessingly, but did not seek to arrest the current of her 
emotion. It was plain that the girl herself sought to stay 
her tears, for, between her sobs, she exclaimed-— 

22 


350 BETROTHAL. 


‘ Forgive—excuse—I know it’s weak, wrong—it is omy 
because—I'm so grateful !” 

The fit of emotion exhausted itself, and she lifted up hey 
face, wiped her eyes, and said— 

“ Lady—” 

“6 Call ms mother, Kate.” 

‘‘ Mother! heart’s dearest mother! do you think ne mis 
took me ?” 

“ How, Kate?” 

“T couldn’t speak! Indeed, indeed I could not! But I 
want you to tell him, mother, how grateful I am, and how 
happy! Tell him, for I never can, how much and how long 
I have loved him. My heart has been single to him ever 
since I first knew him. I will try to make him a good wife— 
indeed, indeed I will. And where my weakness or my igno- 
rance fails, I will pray to Heaven daily for more strength 
and light. Oh! I know what a sacrifice of pride and preju- 
dice he has made for love of me—tell him so, mother, and 
tell him—” 

«No, dear Kate, I will not tell him that. He has made 
no sacrifice. Nonsense. And if he had, you are worth it 
all, all—his wealth, rark, position, pride and all! Be trug 
to yourself.” 

‘¢Oh, what am J, that he should indeed prefer me to ail 
the ladies in the great city that he has left; and what can I 
bring him but my love and my duty—all my love and all my 
duty' 199 

“And do you undervalue these, Kate? Why, they are 
the treasures of treasures. And you would judge them so 
in another’s case. But here you are fond and blind. Now, 
dearest Kate, I am so anxious to see you the wife of Archer. 
And I wish to enjoy that pleasure as long as I can—when 
shall it be?” 

¢¢ Mother, you and he have made me what I am, and given 
to my life all its worth and value—now what can I do but © 
give back myself and life to you? Dearest mother, fix it as 
you will, I shall be happy, any way.” 

«“ Thursday, Kate ?” 

“Yes, Thursday, dear mother.” 

The lady then embraced and dismissed her, and settled 
herself back in her chair to take a necessary nap. 

Catherine left the parlor in that half-blissfal, half-fearful 
trance that falls upon one when the great life’s desire and 


BETROTHAL. 351 


tope is about to be realized—happy beyond measure, but 
somewhat incredulous that this could be really fact—really 
the “sober certainty of waking bliss,” and no dream, and 
foreboding some stroke of fate that should snatch the too 
great joy from her. Major Clifton was standing within the 
open front door, looking out upon the glorious autumn Jand- 
scape and the changing foliage of the trees, some of the outer 
branches of the latter burning so red that they seemed a-fire 
in the rays of the afternoon sun. But he turned to Cathe- 
_ tine, with a buoyant smile and step, and led her out upon 
the piazza. The habitually grave Archer Clifton was almost 
gay. He was in that happy state of mind that all will re- 
cognize who have ever had a severe, long standing moral 
conflict brought to end, in which the reason, conscience and 
heart are all satisfied. The struggle between the prejudices 
of rank and the passion of his soul was over, and the strong- 
est had conquered, and now reigned alone, and a fine, vigor- 
ous, healthful joyousness had taken the place of all reserve 
and gloom and eccentricity ; so great and happy was this 
change, that Catherine felt no more the strange, shy fear of 
him that had ever placed her at such disadvantage in his 
presence. He led her to ashaded seat at the end of a piazza, 
where there were no intruders but a glancing line of sun- 
light, and nothing to disturb them louder than the rustle of 
a ‘falling leaf. And there he poured out the long hoarded 
mysteries of his heart, talking on and on as the hours passed, 
until successively the sun went down, and the stars came out, 
and clouds arose and hid them, and shrouded the piazza in 
darkness. And still he talked—an’ he would talk his 
last,” not even heeding the approach of a servant, until 
Henny’s voice was heard, asking Miss Kate to come and give 
out tea and sugar for supper. Then he arose, and half un- 
mindful of the presence of the maid, he said— 

«« This is very sweet, dear Kate, very, very sweet—to be 
zble to say to you everything without reserve—to tell you 
ail the long withheld secrets of my soul, and see you listen 
with such deep interest; but when will you be equally 
frank with me—when will you show me your heart ?”’ 

he next day Major Clifton rode over to White Cliffs ta 
pay his respects to Georgia. 

The beauty received him with unrestrained joy; but in 
the conversation that ensued, reverted to what she called 
“The intrigues of that low born mancuverer, Miss Kava 


852 BETROTHAL. 


nagh,” asking him if he had not observed a great change 
in Mrs. Clifton, ascribable entirely to her influence ? 

It gave Major Clifton great pain to hear Catherine tra- 
duced in this manner, but he believed Mrs. Georgia to be 
perfectly sincere in her opinion, and only the victim of a 
mistake. He told the lady so, adding— 

“JT am about to give Miss Kavanagh the highest proof 
of confidence that one being can give another. I am about 
to take her for my life’s bosom friend. We shall be mar- 
ried in five days.” 

Had a bullet sped through her heart, she could not have 
given a more agonized bound. Then she struck both hands 
to her temples, started hastily half across the floor, paused 
again as if distracted, and suddenly cried out— 

“ You shall not do it! By my soul, you shall not do it! 
You never, never shall become the dupe of that woman! 
I have entered the lists with her. I mean, that to save you, 
I have done so, and before I leave them, I will prove her 
false and treacherous. (rod show the right !” 

Major Clifton gazed upon her inwonder. The strong emo- 
tion that she had exhibited, imposed upon him, for there was 
no doubting its reality ; and far from suspecting its cause, an 
unhallowed passion for himself, he ascribed it solely to her 
strong conviction of Catherine’s unworthiness, and to her 
disinterested regard for his own welfare. And when she 
eame and threw herself upon the sofa beside him, and be- 
sought, with all the eloquence that passion and the demon 
could lend her, that he would pause and not hurry on to his 
ruin, his confidence in Catherine’s integrity was shaken to the 
foundation. And when at the end of an hour he rode home, 
he reached Hardbargain as miserable as the doubt of one be- 
loved can make a man. If love has the Divine power of 
transfiguring its object until faults are excellencies, suspicion 
possesses the demoniac faculty of deforming its victim until 
virtues seem vices, and under its influence the highest and 
best gifts of the maiden, her intellect, virtues, and graces 
were turned against her; her talent seemed intriguing art ; 
her meekness and humility became meanness and sycophancy ; 
her piety, hypocrisy; and her girlish shyness the sinister 
reserve of conscious guilt. 

It was well that on his return he met Catherine only in his 
mother’s presence, where deep regard for the lady constrained 
him into something like forbearance; though even then his 


BETROTHAL. 3038 


moody manner excited some uneasiness in the bosoms of the 
two ladies. When Catherine left the room to order dinner, 
the conversation that ensued tended to strengthen his newly 
revived suspicions. Mrs. Clifton told him, that with his con- 
sent she would like to leave the farm of Hardbargain to Cath- 
erine, as a testimony of her esteem and affection. 

“ And for a4 more practical reason, too,” she said, “ for 
you know, my dear Archer, that the ‘estate of White Cliffs 
being entailed-—if you should die before her, and without 
male children— Catherine and her daughters, if she should 
have any, would be left homeless. But if I leave her this 
farm of Hardbargain, it can make no difference to you during 
your life, and if Catherine happen to survive you, it will se- 
cure her a home. What do you think of this plan, Archer ? 
You look grave and troubled. If you have the slightest 
objection, I will not carry it out, of course.” 

“Surely I have not the least right to object, my dear 
mother ; your property you have made by your own labor, 
and improved by your own admirable management.” 

“You have the right of nature, my dear Archer; and I 
see by your gravity, that you dislike this arrangement; there- 
fore it shall not be made.” 

«You mistake my thoughtfulness, dear madam. If I am 
somewhat grave, it is upon another subject. Believe me, 1 
have not the slightest fault to find with this plan; neither 
does it take me by surprise, I have been prepared for it months 
since. Mrs. Georgia Clifton informed me that such was your 
intention.” 

“Ts it possible? How could Georgia have kuown any- 
thing about it? But T suppose she has heard me drop words 
to that effect. May I hope then, that this purpose meets your 
approbation, Archer ?” 

‘¢ Certainly, madam, it can make no material difference, if 
Kate is to be my wife. And, if she were not to be so, I should 
be quite as well pleased.” 

Unconscious of the double meaning of his words, the lady 
then inquired into the cause of his gloom. 

‘‘ Merely a fit of moodiness, dear mother; the reaction, 
perhaps, of yesterday’s joy; a mere depression of spirits, 
which a brisk gallop over the hills will throw off.” 

<< If you are inclined for a ride, Archer, you can do mea 
service at the same time, if you will go to L- and bring 
' gut Mr. White, the lawyer, tc draw up my will ” 





854 — BETROTITAL. 


A spasm of pain passed over the handsome countcnance 
of Major Clifton, and he said— 

‘“‘ | willdo anything you please, dearest mother ; but surely 
there is no necessity tor baste in this matter.” 

“ Archer, there is. Besides, my mind will be easier when 
it is done. And Archer, lastly—bring with you a clergyman. 
I wish to receive the Holy Communion.” 

Major Clifton made no farther objection, but left the room 
to order his horse; and in less than half an hour he found 
himself on his way to L . Mrs. Clifton summoned 
Kate. When the girl entered, she found the lady on the 
verge of fainting from over-exertion and extreme weakness. 
Catherine grew pale with sudden fear, and her hands treme 
bled as she poured out and administered a restorative. Some- 
what revived by the cordial, Mrs. Clifton said— 

‘“‘ Kate, write two notes, one to Mrs. Georgia Clifton, and 
one to your brother Carl, asking each of them to come here 
this evening to witness a deed—or rather two of them, my 
dear Kate—the signing of my last will and testament, and 
the solemnization of your marriage—for both must be has- 
tened, Kate. My dear child, take your pen and write at 
once.” 

Deeply troubled, extremely agitated, yet struggling to 
govern her feelings, Catherine found the writing materials 
and penned the two notes; but when she had finished them, 
in the abstraction of her great grief, she misdirected them— 
and sent the note intended for Mrs. Georgia to Carl Ka- 
vanagh, and that intended for Carl to Mrs. Georgia. When 
she had dispatched these notes by diflerent messengers, and 
returned to the parlor, Mrs. Clifton said— 

“Call Henny, my dear Kate, and let her assist you in 
getting me up stairs. It has come at last, Kate.” 

Almost dismayed by sorrow, Catherine rung the bell that 
brought the servants into the room. And between them 
they raised the lady to her feet. Mrs. Clifton took a lung 
‘ook around the room, as though she were taking a last leave 
ef every dear familiar object in it; and then suffered here 
self to be supported up to her chamber. 





wee - 


Mrs. Georgia Clifton was paeing her chamber floor, in ali 
the distraction of excited ev passions, racking her brain fot 


BETROTIIAL. 85h 


an expedient fo ruin her rival and break off the impending 
marriage, when the “ spirits that tend on mortal thoughts,” 
furnished her with one. A messenger entered and handed 
her a sealed envelope, directed in the handwriti ing of Cathe- 
rine Kavanagh. She opened it in surprise, curiosity, and 
even in some degree of vague, guilty fear, and found within 
the misdirected note of Kate to Carl. It read simply as 


follows : 


“ Dear Carn :— 

“Mrs. Clifton is almost dying. She says you must come to 
the house this afternoon, at four o’clock, to meet a lawyer 
and a clergyman, and with Mrs. Georgia Clifton, to witness 


the signing of her last will, and also my marriage. Do not 
keep her waiting. « CATHERINE.” 


This note contained no expression of esteem or affection 
for the mvalid, or regret at her approaching death. No! for 
Vatherine’s veneration and sorrow were too earnest, too real, 
fo he a matter of wordy formula. But in the evil heart of 
Georgia this simplicity was turned against the girl. And her 
first idea, revealed in her smile of satisfaction, was to show 
this mis-sent note to Archer Clifton, and bid him look and 
see with what perfect coolness and indifference the writer 
sould announce the approaching demise of her benefactress. 
But while this thought was revolving in her mind, Satan 
suggested a surer plan—a deadly stratagem. And at this 
inspiration of the fiend, the dark face of the baleful woman 
lighted up with demoniac joy. She seized the note again, 
and rushed te the window, and scanned the hand-writing 
Georgia inherited all the imitative talent of her father, the 
portrait-painter. Catherine’s hand-writing was unique : small, 
square letters, with heavy strokes, a chirogaphy peculiar to 
herself, yet easily imitated. Mrs. Georgia copied a few 
selected words—compared them with the originals, and was 
satisfied with her work. Next she wished to procure note 
paper, exactly like it. Catherine’s note was written upon 
neutral-tinted paper, that had been given her by Major 
Clifton. Mrs. Georgia recognized it as some that had be- 
lunged to him. She thought there might possibly be a few 
stray sheets in the writing-table of the likrary. She went 
thither, and after a diligent search, found a single sheet. 
This she took with her, and returned to her chamber, locked 
terse f in, and s*t down to her fiendish task. Perfectly 


356 BETROTHAL. 


imitating the handwriting of Catherine, she forge! the fcl- 
lowing letter: 


© DEAREST CARL :— 

‘¢ My long slavery is almost over. The old woman is at her 
last gasp, and wants you to come over this afternoon at four 
o’clock, to witness her will and my marriage. You see I 
have succeeded in catching the aristocrat, and in wheedling 
his mother into giving me Hardbargain, in my sole right. 
Am I not a triumphant diplomatist? When she is dead, 
and I am married, and mistress of White Cliffs and of Hard- 
bargain, as I shall probably reside at the principal seat, I 
intend to let you this farm, on the easiest terms. Never fear 
Major Clifton*s interference. You know J know how to 


manage him. “ CATHERINE.” 


When she had completed her demon-work, Georgia care 
fully examined it. It satisfied her. She smilud, and mut- 
tered—“ ny one who ever saw Catherine’s queer hand- 
writing, would feel safe in swearing this to be Lers.” Then 
she folded it in the form of the other note, and placed it in 
the original envelope—and threw it, broken-seauled as it was, 
upon the table, exclaiming— There !— 


‘“¢T have set my life upon a cast, 
And will abide the hazard of the die.’ ” 





In the meanwhile, Catherine watched by the bedside of 
Mrs. Clifton, awaiting the return of Major Clifton, with the 
clergyman and the attorney. 

About three o’clock in the afternoon the party arrived 
The professional gentlemen remained in the parlor, while 
Major Clifton went up into the chamber of his mother. As 
he approached her bed, and perceived the fearful change a 
few hours had wrought in her appearance, and recognized 
the sure approach of death, he was so shocked, so overwheluied 
with sorrow, that it was with the utmost difficulty he could 
sustain his self-command. 

She held out to him her wasted hand, saying, quietly—- 

*¢ My dear Archer, I wish to have the marriage ceremuny 
between you and Kate performed this afternoon, if you 


please.” 


BETROTHAL. Sot 


“Certainly, my dear mother, it shall be as you desire,” 
he replied, repressing a great groan—but desircus, above all 
things, to gratify that dying parent. ‘Shall it be now, 
mother ?” 

«¢ No, dear Archer, not just yet—I want the holiest things 
.2ft for the /ast—I want the will drawn up, witnessed, signed 
and sealed first; then the marriage ceremony performed ; 
and last, I wish to receive the Holy Communion—after which, 
T shall be ready to depart.” 

“¢ Mother—the minister and the lawyer arv below stairs, 
awaiting your leisure—they will remain over to-night. D») 
not disturb yourself.” 

“My good Archer, I made Catherine write to Carl Kava- 
nagh and to Mrs. Georgia to come to see me this afternoon, 
they have not yet arrived. Please go and send again for 
them.” 

Archer Clifton bent and kissed his mother’s forehead, and 
went down stairs. In the hall he saw Carl Kavanagh, ha 
in hand, waiting. 

Carl immediately advanced, and said— 

«© Ah! Major Clifton, I am waiting here to see my sister. 
to return to her this note, that she has sent me by mistake 
I think—perhaps you can explain it.” And he handed tc 
Archer Clifton the mis-sent note of Catherine to Georgia. 

Major Clifton understood the mistake at once, and retain- 
ing the note, replied— 

«< Catherine wrote two notes, summoning yourself and Mrs, 
Georgia Clifton to Hardbargain, this afternoon, to witness 
the signature of a certain document. She placed them ip 
envelopes, and in her haste misdirected them—that is all. 
Pray remain here, while I ride over home, and bring Mrs 
Georgia.” 

Carl Kavanagh sat down in the hall, BA Major Clifton 
mounted a fresh horse, and galloped over to White Cliffs 
Dismounting at the gate, he threw the reins to a servant 
aud entering the house, sent a message to Mrs. Georgia. 

The servant returned, and requesting Major Clifton to fol: 
low, led the way up to Mrs. Georgia’s own room, opened the 
door, announced the visitor, and retired. 

Archer entered the room, and found the lady seated at 
ner work-table, but looking pale and anxious. By her work- 
pox lay the enve'ope of Kate’s true note with the forged neta 
in it. 


358 BETROTHAL. 


“Ah!” said Major Clifton, after greeting ner, ‘1 see 
ibat you have received Kate’s note.” 

«“ Yes—one that was never intended for my eyes, but of 
those of a fellow conspirator.” 

«¢ Conspirator, madam !’ 

«Yes, sir. Do you surmise all the consequences of these 
rais-sent letters? Look at this!” she said, throwing i te 
him, “‘ written by Miss Kavanagh, but directed by mistake 
tome. Yes, look at it! Examine the envelope! and then 
read the contents of the note !” 

Major Clifton glanced at the superscription, opened the 
note, and read it through with a cheek growing pale and 
paler—unutil he finished it—then tossed it from him, and 
burying his face in his hands’ groaned aloud. He had not 
the slightest suspicion that the infamous letter was a forgery 
—no !—he had not a single merciful doubt tnat it was the 
work of Catherine—nay, he would have sworn to the hand- 
writing, if called upon to do so in a court of justice—he 
would have sworn to it though Kate’s life hung upon his oath! 
Any one else who had ever seen her peculiar chirography 
would have felt constrained to do so, if requested—save two 
—she who lay dying at Hardbargain—and she was to know 
nothing about it—and he, the rejected lover, now far away, 
who would have cast that note aside in high disdain, and 
staked his honor on her truth. Clifton groaned aloud, in the 
bitterness of disappointed esteem. Resentment itself was 
swallowed up in sorrow, and he exclaimed— 

: “Oh! would to God she had died, or J had, before I knew 
this !” 

‘¢ Rejoice, rather, that you are saved !” 

“¢ Saved, madam !” 

“¢ Yes—saved: You will never marry her, now. Youare 
perfectly justifiable in breaking with the unmasked traitress !” 

*« And in shaking the last few sands in my mother’s glase 
of life. The discovery of that girl’s treachery has driven 
me to despair—it would kill my mother! No, lady! I must 
marry her, that my beloved mother may depart in peace.” 

“Marry her!” screamed Georgia, with the ery of a 
wounded hyena— marry her, and sacrifice all your hopes 
of happiness, for the sake of keeping quiet the last few hours 
of adying woman! You will not do such a thing :” 

‘My hopes of happiness, did you say, Mrs. Clifton? Ah, 
laly, can yor" noé somprehend, then, that when one at my age 


BETROTHAL. 85Y 


fas discovered—beyond all possibility of doubt—-the total] 
unworthiness of one the most beloved on earth—the heart’s 
most cherished darling—the life’s dearest hope—” down broke 
his voice, and down dropped his head upon his hands—then 
rising, lmpatiently, he exclaimed—* I say, can you not com. 
prehend that I have no hopes of happiness left? I loved her 
so! I trusted her so! I sacrificed such strong prejudices 
for her! And I was as happy as a converted sinner, when 
the struggle was over and the sacrifice made. I could have 
shaken hands with her freckled-handed brother, and claimed 
kindred with all his rugged race! And now!—TI am un- 
manned! Lam a fool !” 

‘‘ No, you are not, unless you marry her. You are not the 
first noble-minded isan that has been duped by a bad woman! 
You feel it as every generous-hearted man would. But it 
will pass. Life has many chances, and you will be happy 
yet. My friendship is not much, perhaps, but is it not some= 
thing ?”’ 

«« Yes—yes—yes—yes—sweet friend, it is much,” said 
Archer Ciifton, slowly—half soliloquizing, as he took and 
held her hand. Then suddenly starting, as out of a reverie, 
be exclaimed—* Mrs. Clifton, you know my errand here—it 
is to bring you over to Hardbargain, for the purpose of which 
you have already been advised by the note.” 

“To be present at your mad marriage, among other 
things ?” 

s¢ Yes.” 

“JT will not go! I cannot! I cannot witness such a 
sacrifice.” 

«¢ As you please, dear Georgia. I suppose there is no im- 
perative necessity of your doing so—good-bye!” and he arose, 
and lifted his hat from the table. 

“Yes! good-bye, indeed! replied Georgia, bitterly— 
* good-bye, indeed! if you persist in your imsane purpose: 
—I shall remain here, and hope to the last. But when I 
hear that this marriage has really taken place, I leave White 
Cliffs within the hour!” 

«© You will think differently, dear lady, and I shall see you 
again, shortly.” 

ss Never !—as the husband of that traitress.” 

He did not reply. He raised her hand to his lips, and left 


her. 7 
Left to kerself, mad ‘mpulses seized the disappomted wo- 


360 BETROTHAL. 


man. At one mstant she was impelled to seize the forged 
letter, and rush to the death-bed of Mrs. Clifton, and there 
denounce her favorite as a hypocrite and a traitress. Buta 
moment’s reflection convinced her that no art of hers could 
induce the dying woman to think evil of the excellent girl she 
herself had educated. That on the contrary, sucha step might © 
possibly result in her own signal defeat aud exposure, and 
the everlasting anger and contempt of Archer Clifton. Her 
brain was beginning to reel, and her self-confidence to wane. 
In sudden fear she looked around for the forged letter, in- 
tending to burn it. It was nowhere to be seen. Then she 
recollected that Major Clifton had, on departing, picked it 
up, and put it in his pocket. And sick with disappointed 
love, jealousy, hatred, and fear, she tottered towards a lounge, 
but ere she reached it, fell upon the floor. In the meanwhile, 
Major Clifton, riding at full speed, reached the farm house. 

On reaching Hardbargai, Major Clifton went immediately 
to Mrs. Clifton’s chaniber. He found her still sinking. She 
inquired, in a faint voice, whether he had brought Mrs. 
Georgia. He replied, with perhaps a pardonable ambiguity 
of speech, that Mrs. Georgia was too much indisposed to at- 
tend. ‘Then she said that she supposed Mr. White (the 
clergyman) would consent to act in her stead. She informed 
him that the attorney had been with her, and had drawn up 
her will according to her instruction, and she requested that 
the parties might be assembled in her room to witness the 
signing. Major Clifton left the chamber to summon them, and 
soon returned, accompanied by the lawyer, the minister, Car] 
Kavanagh and Catherine. The will was then read, after which 
the lady was raised up in bed, and supported in the arms of 
her son; the document was placed upon a portfolio and laid 
before her, and a pen dipped in ink and presented to her. 
She signed her name, and immediately sank back exhausted. 
The two witnesses affixed their signatures, and the will was 
delivered into the custody of the attorney. A restorative 
was administered to the invalid, and she was arranged com- 
fortably upon her pillows. Then she took the hand of her 
son, ard whispered— 

‘Let the marriage ceremony be performed at once, dearest 
Archer.” 

He pressed that wan hand, laid it tenderly down upon the 
eoverlet, and spoke apart with the clergyman, who occupied 
the chair beside the head of the bed. The minister solemnly 


BETROTHAL. 36) 


arose, drew a prayer-book from his pocket and »pened it 
Major Clifton went quietly and spoke a few words in expla- 
nation to the lawyer and Carl Kavanagh, who then approached 
the bed-side. Lastly, he took the hand of Catherine, and led 
her up before the minister. The marriage ceremony com- 
menced. It was performed according to the ritual of the 
Protestant Episcopal Church. But when the great question 
was put to the bridegroom—* Archer, ‘wilt thou have this 
woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together, after God’s 
ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love 
her, comfort her, honor her,’ ” ete.—instead of answering, 
according to the ritual, “TI will,’ he replied by a grave and 
formal bow, with silent lips, * that scarce their scorn for- 
bore.” When the corresponding question was put to the 
bride, Kate too replied by a gentle inclination of the head, 
but her true heart responded sincerely, earnestly. When 
the last benediction was given, and when, according to the 
old formula, the bridegroom was to salute his bride, he merely 
touched her cheek with cold lips, and passed her on to his 
mother, who held out her arms to embrace her daughter. 
The singularity of Major Clifton’s manner was scarcely no- 
ticed, or it was ascribed to the solemnity of the attending 
circumstances. Mrs. Clifton now desired that all, with the 
exception of her son and daughter and the clergyman, should 
bid her adieu and leave the room. Her request was complied 
with, and when they had retired, she signified her wish to 
partake of the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper with her chil- 
dren. Major Clifton was constrained to decline, upon con- 
scientious scruples; for how could he partake of the Sacra- 
ment of peace and brotherly love, with his heart consumed 
with indignation against his newly-married bride? Catherine, 
however, participated in the Holy Communion, while he 
looked on with surprise, mixed with a degree of horror. 
When the sacred rite was over, the minister of God took an 
affectionate leave, and-departed. When the minister was 
gone, and they were left alone together, the dying mother 
beckoned her son and daughter to come and sit near her. 
They obeyed her, and she addressed them a few words of 
earnest, affectionate counsel, blessed them, and resigned her- 
self to rest. Her eyelids closed calmly, and her breathing 
was gentle and regular; they had to mark attentively before 
they knew that it grew fainter and fainter. Once she opened 
ner eyes, and, smiling her old, reflecting smile, said— 


362 BETROTHAL. 


“ Dear Archer, I have often tried to detect the exact mo- 
ment of falling asleep. I watch now, to see if I can seize 
the precise instant of passing from mortal to immortal life.” 

And she closed her eyes again. After a few minutes, she 
said— 

«Sing to me, dear Kate! You know—Heber’s dcaih 
hymn.” 

Catherine bent and kissed the pallid lips of the dying wo- 
man, and then her voice arose, sweet, clear and spiritual as 
angels’ songs, in that immortal requiem— 

“Vital spark of heavenly flame, 

Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame 3 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying— 


Hark! they whisper, angels say— 
Sister spirit, come away— 


At the end of the first stanza, she murmured, faintly — 

“ Your voice, too, dear Archer.” 

His voice arose now in unison with Catherine’s, and they 
sang the remainder— 


! 


“ The world recedes—.t disappears ¢ 
Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears 
W ith sounds seraphic ring. 
Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly! 
Oh, grave, where is thy victory? 
Oh, death, where is thy sting ?” 


They ceased, and looked upon the marble face before 
them. It was still in death, but there remained upon the 
countenance the impress of the ecstatic smile with which the 
spirit had taken its flight— 


F ‘Her death 
Was like the setting cf a planet md” 


THE POISON WORKS. ‘ 863 


CLAPIER XXXL. 
THE POISON WORKS. 


’Tis slander ; 
W hose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue 
Outvenoms all the worms of the Nile.-—SHaxksPEarReE. 


WueEn Archer Clifton saw that all indeed was over; when 
he looked upon that mother-face, the first which had ever met 
his conscious gaze in life; that old, familiar face, which 
seemed to him coeval with his being, and a necessary part 
of it; that face the most intimate, the most loving, the most 
faithful which had ever shone upon his path of life ;—and 
felt that it was lost forever; that the light of those quiet 
eyes was darkened forever; the sound of that kind voice 
silenced forever; the smile of those calm lips fled forever ;— 
when he clasped that mother-hand, and felt that those dear 
fingers would close upon his own in cordial grasp never, never 
more; -oh! when he felt that all was over, over, “ finished, 
done and ended,” he fell upon his knees by the corpse, 
dropped his head upon the cold, inanimate bosom, and broke 
into convulsive sobs. 

Weeping freely, Catherine knelt by his side, and put her 
arm around his neck. He was unconscious of her presence, 
until, after giving way to sorrow for a few moments, she 
lifted up her head, and wiped her eyes, and controlling her 
own emotion, sought to console hin— 

“Do not grieve so, dear Archer,” she murmured, with 
her arm again around him, “ do not grieve, but pray.” 

Then indeed he suddenly grew calm, unclasped the gentle 
arm of Catherine from his neck, arose slowly from his kneel- 
ing posture, took her hand, and raised her upon her feet, and 
regarding her with a stern and sorrowful countenance, said, 
in severe rebuke— 

“Come! madam! no more hypocrisy now! None here 
at least' It is useless hereafter! You have accomplished 
your design. You are a ‘successful diplomatist,’ and your 
“long slavery’ 7s now over.” 


364 THE POISON WORKS. 


Catherine lifted her eyes, dilated with sorrow and amaze- 
ment, and fixed them on bis face n+ instant; but the look 
she met there, the expression of mingled suffering and se- 
verity, such as might have sat upon the brow of Brutus, 
when the feelings of the man and the duty of the judge 
strove in his bosom, awed her into silence before him. She 
could express no surprise or grief—ask no explanation. The 
old shyness and fear came over her, and her eyes fell, and 
her cheeks paled. Again he spoke in the same stern, sor- 
rowful tone— 

“ Ay, cower with conscious guilt! You are discovered! 
And you should have been unmasked before her to-day, but 
that I did not wish to embitter ber last moments! that only 
saved you! Come! leave the room that you desecrate with 
your presence! Leave me alone with my dead!” 

But instead of obeying, she stood like a statue before 
him. 

Then he took her hand and led her through the door, and 
closed it behind her. 

Catherine stood there where he had placed her, amazed, 
confounded, unable to move a step forward, until the thought 
of practical duties, now pressing upon her, gave her strength, 
and she passed on to summon those whose office it was to 
prepare the dead for burial. But amid all the multifarious 
tasks that devolved upon her at that trying time, as newly 
installed and unassisted mistress of the house, she could not 
fur an instant forget her awful bereavement, or the dreadful 
auger of her husband. 

He came out of the room of death at last, and passed 
Catherine on the stairs, and his stern, averted countenance 
at that moment almost broke her heart. But she went on 
enduringly with her tasks. Often she raised her soul in 
prayer to God for help. Once, during that desolate night, 
she found time to open her Bible, and her eyes fell upon this 
text: Romans, 8, 28. “ And we know that all things work 
together for good, to them that love God”—she paused upon 
the text, repeating, ‘all things,’ a// things, even this! I 
will believe it!” And her face grew beautiful with divine 
faitn, and she reverently closed the book, and went on her 
way comforted. She had need of fresh strength and com- 
fort, indeed, to meet a fresh trial. On coming down stairs 
she met Henny, who seemed to be on the look out for her. 


THE POISON WORKS. 865 


an4 who placed a note in her hand. It was from Major 
Curton, and read as follows— 


“T desire that you keep your chamber to-morrow, or, at 
leas‘, refrain from insulting the memory of the dead, by a 


peariag at the funeral. ARCHER CLIFTON.” 


She nodded her head slowly, meditatively, with a look of 
sweetest resignation ; then beckoned Henny to follow her, and 
returned to her chamber. There she sat down and wrote the 
followmg note— 


“T will absent myself from the funeral, since you wish me 
to do sv; I will also keep my room, if you desire it, when I 
remind you that there is no one to supply my place in the 
household arrangements for the solemnities of the day. 


“« CATHERINE.” 


She sent this by Henny, but received no reply to it. Con- 
struing silence into consent, she went about the house as 
usual attending to her duties. 

In the meantime, Major Clifton sat in his study, awaiting 
an answer to a note he had written to Mrs. Georgia, apprising 
her ot the recent events, and requesting her to come at once 
to the house. He had not to wait long; his messenger re- 
turned, and informed him that he had met the lady on her 
way to L , to take the stage coach to Richmond. The 
man, at the same time, gave the intelligence that Mr. Kava- 
nagh waited in the hall, to know if he could be of any service 
to Major Clifton on the present occasion. 

¢¢ Show him in,” said Major Clifton. 

The man went out and soon returned, accompanied by 
Carl, whose face expressed the most profound and sinccre 
sympathy. 

“Set a chair for Mr. Kavanagh, and retire, James.” 

The man obeyed, Carl seated himself, and in person re 
peited his condolences, and his tenders of service. 

In reply, Major Clifton took from his pocket the forged 
pote and laid it before him, saying, coldly— 

“There is the note your sister wrote to vou, and sent by 
mistake to Mrs. Georgia Clifton. Read it.” 

Carl took it up, wondering what might be the use of read- 
mg it now, but as he glanced over “its contents, his eyes 
grew wide with astonishment, and when he had finished it, 
he laid it down again, exclaiming— 

23 





365 THE POISON WORKS. 
s¢T am confounded !” 

“ T should think so, sir!”” coldly remarked Major Clifton. 

«She speaks of letting me the farm! I never had the 
alichtest desire to rent the farm, and before I heard the will 
read, I had not even the slightest idea that Mrs. Cliften de- 
signed to leave it to my sister!” 

«Ah! Really?’ asked Mr. Clifton, ironically. 

“ Really and truly, and sincerely and positively, I haa 
not.” 

“ Tautological asseveration is no evidence. Why should 
she have written to you thus if you had not ?” 

‘¢* How do I know, sir? I tell you I am amazed! And 
if 1 did not know, beyond all possibility of doubt, the hand- 
writing to be Catherine’s, I should say that she did not write, 
and that she never could have written such a letter.” 

‘¢ Which means plainly this, that if there did not exist the 
most positive proof to the contrary, you would fain deny it,” 
sneered Major Clifton. 

“ Yes, sir !”? answered Carl, boldly. ‘If the proof posi- 
tive to my mind, as well as to your own did not exist, I would 
deny it, and I do deny any personal agency or knowledge 
about it whatever! I say to youthat 1am amazed! It ig 
incomprehensible to me how Catherine could have conceived, 
much less written such a letter! And above all things, it is 
inexplicable how she should have written so disrespectfully 
of Mrs. Clifton, whom she loved and venerated so much.” 

‘Or whom, for certain purposes, she pretended to love 
and venerate so much.” 

‘¢She did, sir! She really did. She was sincere in her 
esteem and affection. She was sincere in all things.” 

*¢T know she affected rare sincerity.” | 

*¢ It was no affectation, Major Clifton. I have known her 
from childhood—it was truth. And I tell you, I seareely 
believe my own eyes! I scarcely believe that I am awake 
when I see that letter! I am confounded!” 

“ Well, sir!” said Major Clifton, sternly, his whole man- 
ner changing, “J, at least am not so confounded as not te 
knew that she never would have written such a letter to you, 
had you not been the confidant of her plans. And you are 
not'so confounded as to be ignorant, that, after such a de- 
velopment, I am constrained to forbid you the house, and te 
interdic* all communication between your sister and your 
self.” 


THE POISON WORKS. oor 


There was something of Catherine’s own nobility in the 
manner of Carl’s reply. He stood a moment with his foree 
head thrown back, as if in calm, pounpassened thought, then 
he said—-. 

«© Major Clifton, my sister is now your wits and you have, 
doubtless, the perfect right to control her actions—neither 
do I accuse you of undue severity in this affair, for; under 
hke circumstances, I should, parhaps, be tempted to act in 
the same way. I cannot account for this letter. For the 
present, it must remain unexplained. Nor can I exculpate 
myself any more than my sister from the odium of a suspicion, 
which God knows I am willing to bear with her, since I can- 
not clear her of it. You do not know how dear to an only 
brother’s heart is his only sister. Yes! I am willing to share 
the odium with her, hoping, Knowing that it will pass away 
in time. And then, Major Clifton, you will feel more pain 
at the recollection of the injustice you have done us, than I 
feel now in suffering it. You will be more angry with your- 
self than I could be with you. You will reproach yourself 
more bitterly than I could reproach you, were I never so in- 
dignant. And I am not indignant at all. I could not be 
so! All feelings are subdued to calmness in the sacred 
proximity of the unburied dead in the next room. One thing 
only remains to be said. It is this: I cannot continue to 
live upon this place, under the cloud of the master’s il] 
opinion. My engagement as manager of this farm terminates 
with this year, I shall be glad, if before the time expires, 
you will provide yourself with another overseer.” 

“As you please, Mr. Kavanagh. Yet I should not have 
sent you away with your young family.” 

‘¢ You are considerate, sir!’ said Carl, bowing, then add- 
ing—‘ I presume you have no further commands for me, 
Major Clifton ?”’ 

«None, Mr. Kavanagh.” 

“‘ Good-night, sir.” 

 (Yood-night.” 

The next day was the day of the funeral. Before the peo- 
ple began to assemble, Catherine, impelled by an irresistible 
desire to gaze once more upon the face of her beloved friend, 
found herself at the door of the front parlor in which the 
corpse was laid out for burial. But here, with her hand 
upon the lock, she hesitated, and finally stifling her crying 
want turned away, saying within herself—‘ No, I will noi 


368 THE POISON WORKS. 


mtrude. 1 will be guided by the spirit as well as by the 
Ictter of his commands. He will not accept my love. To 
yield him perfect unquestioning obedience is all the earthly 
comfort I have left.” And she began to retrace her steps. 

Major Clifton came out of the back room and met her face 
to face. 

«© What were you doing near that door, Catherine ?” 

“T wished to take a last look at her dear—” Here Kate 
burst into tears and wept convulsively a few minutes—during 
which, Clifton watched her in stern sorrow. Then controlling 
herself, she said, «I wished to look once more, and for the 
Jast time, upon Ker beloved face. But when I reached the 
door, and was about to enter, I remembered your commands 
and turned back.” 

Clifton, who had never taken his eyes from her, groaned 
aloud. Then he said, gravely and sadly— 

“Catherine, if any feeling of penitential sorrow inspires 
your wish to go there, go, in Heaven’s name! And may the 
sight of that dead face bring you to repentance.” 

She turned to thank him, and ask him what he wished her 
to repent—but before she could find words, he had re-entered 
his study Catherine passed into the room of death, turned 
down the pall, and gazed upon the face of the dead. It had 
changed very much—every furrow and every wrinkle was 
softened out of it, the forehead was as smooth as the brow 
of childhood, an ineffable, a divine repose spread like a dream 
of Heaven over the features. Catherine’s tears were stayed, 
the convulsions of her bosom were calmed, her soul was awed 
and exalted as she gazed upon this countenance, so beautiful 
in death. But at last her full heart revealed itself in a look 
of unutterable tenderness and devotion, and she murmured, 
in low, slow, gentle tones— You always loved and trusted 
mc. and for your dear sake, I will be a good wife to your sen. 
Yes! whatever he may be to me, for your dear sake, as well 
as for his own, I will be a good wife to him. Hear my vow 

T cannot sagle you dead. This is all I see—this beautiful, 
calm clay; but I know your spirit hovers near. Hear my 
vow. Hear me promise, with God’s s grace, to dedicate all my 
faculties of brain, and heart, and hands to his interest and 
uappiness! to bear all things, to endure all things, to hope 
al! things, even to the end of life, come what may,” she 
stooped and sealed her vow by a farewell kiss upon tLe brow 
and lips of that beloved face, and reverently covered it, and 


THE POISON WORKS. $63 


—not tc abuse her privilege by too long a stay —slowly left 
the room. She never saw that face again. 

Within an hour afterwards, the company began to assemble 
in great crowds, for Mrs. Clifton was widely known and 
greatly respected and beloved. ‘The clergyman, who was to 
yerform the burial service, arrived, and the solemnity com, 
menced. In the mean time Catherine sat in her distaut 
chamber, listening to the faint, inaudible sound of the min. 
ister’s voice that reached her from afar, or else engaged in 
prayer, but always calmed, strengthened and consoled. Many 
p2ople at the funeral wondered greatly why the young bride 
had not appeared with her husband; but some one imagined 
it to be because she was too much overcome by sorrow to be 
present, and told itasa fact, which was at once believed, and 
circulated. And that—like many an other idle falsehood, 
satisfactorily silenced conjecture. When the services were 
over, and the funeral procession had left the house for the 
grave-yard—when Catherine felt that her more than mother 
was now indeed gone, gone, gone—she cast herself upon her 
bed in the last agony of sorrow. 

Little household cares. What blessed though humble 
ministers to sorrow they are—gently drawing away the mourne 
er from the contemplation of her grief, and compelling atten- 
tion to themselves. So they give occupation, and induce 
forgetfulness—aiding in their humble way the great comfort- 
ers, religion and time. An hour spent in bitter tears and sobs, 
and then the little domestic duties came hovering about her 
like little children, claiming her care. There wasa iarge sup- 
per to be prepared, and bed-chambers to be got re eady for 
friends who had come from the remoter parts of the county, 
and who would therefore remain until the next morning. 
And so Catherine arose and refreshed herself with cold water 
and a change of dress, and went below stairs to superintend 
the operations of her cook and house-inaids. 

When everything was in readiness, she went into the draw- 
ing-room, where she received the returning visitors with a 
pensive, gentle dignity that won all their hearts, proud con- 
servators of rank as they were. And that evening, young 
girl and new bride as she was, she presided at the head of 
the iong table, filled with the county aristocrats, with all the 
ease and grace of a lady “to the manner born.”? Preoccu- 
pied by one earnest thought and purpose, she never once re- 
membere? herself as a new comer into their ranks, or 


370 THE Porsose WORKS, 


troubled nerseif with the question of what might be their 
spinion of her. For the rest, her courtesy was graceful and 
dignified, because it was natural, and not assumed—the effevt 
of benevolence and kindly social feeling, and not of pride, 
vanity, or ostentation. 

The next morning, after breakfast, the guests departed. 
And many and cordial were the invitations to their houses 
extended to Catherine by all—even the haughtiest defenders 
of the sacredness of caste. Catherine received all these 
civilities with a gracious nobleness, that sat naturally and 
well upon her. And all this—the very evident esteem and 
respect of her neighbors, and the admirable manner in which 
Catherine received them, would have highly gratified the 
pride of Major Clifton, could anything except her exeulpa- 
tion from suspicion have pleased him. As it was, he witnessed 
it all with a moody brow, and sneering lip, and murmured 
to himsel 

“Better and better, * Maria Teresa.? You should have 
seen more of the world, before you threw your diplomatic 
talents away upon me, and my country neighbors.” 

Well, at length they were all, to the very last guest, gone, 
and Major Clifton and- Catherine were left alone, left stand- 
ing togetherin the hall, whence they had seen the departures, 

‘Catherine, hesitating between her fear of intruding upon 
his notice, and her dislike to leave him abruptly and rudely, 
stood—no longer self-possessed and noble—but with her eyes 
fixed upon the ground, and with the color deepening in her 
cheek, in embarrassed silence, wishing that he might say 
something to her, something to explain the nature ‘of that 
dark cloud that had arisen so strangely between them. 

He broke the silence by saying, coldly— 

“Mrs. Clifton—” She started and colored, at hearing 
herself addressed by her new name. ‘It is my intention to 
make White Cliffs our future home. I desire that you be 
ready to accompany me thither to-morrow morning.” 

Catherine bowed her head in acquiescence. And with a 
eold nod, he placed his hat upon his head, and walked forth. 

Catherine went in, and occupied the remainder of the day 
in directing the labor of her servants, who were all employed 
in setting the house in order after the late, confusing events, 
in packing away goods, and covering up furniture, and in 
preparing generally for the closing up of the building, 





EAacoication. are 


CHAPTER ‘ASUATi, 


DEDICATION. 


Stand up, look below, 
It is my life at thy feet [ throw, 
To step with into light and joy, 
_ Nota power of life but I'll employ 
To satisfy thy nature’s want.—BRownina. 


Ti aext a orning after breakfast, the family carriage was 
snnounved to take them to White Cliffs. Catherine put on 
her bonuev anf shawl, and stood waiting, until Major Clifton, 
drawing un his gloves, came forward and attended her to the 
carriage uvor. He handed her in, entered himself, took the 
seat oppusite t) her, and bade the coachman drive on. The 
whole distauce between Hardbargain and White Cliffs was 
passed over iu perfect silence by the parties. Major Clifton 
preserving a stern gravity of demeanor, and Catherine 
scarcely daring to lift her eyes, lest she should encounter 
that severe bat sorrowful gaze that almost broke her heart. 
She longed to inquire— 

«Oh, Majer Clifton! What is this that has arisen between 
us? Give the miserya name! Tell me?” But the shy- 
ness and fear she had always felt in his presence, and doubly 
felt when he was reserved or displeased, and above all, the 
bashfulness of new bridehood, forced her into silence. 

At last the ride was over, and the carriage stopped before 
the main entrance of the mansion-house. 

The plantation laborers, in their holyday zlothes, mar- 
shalled by the overscer, were assembled upon the lawn, and 
the house servants in their “ Sunday’s best,” with the house- 
keeper at their head, waited on the piazza “to pay their 
duty.” 

When the carriage had drawn up, Major Clifton alighted 
and assisted his bride to get out. He led her up the marble 
atairs to the front door. The housekeeper with a curtsey, 


rae PErraaTIon 


stepped forward to attend her. But with the courteous 
Kindness that Major Clifton seldom omitted, he waved her 
aside, merely saying— 

“ Mrs. Mercer, send all these women about their duties, 
and tell Turnbull to disperse the men. I do not wish to be 
disturbed. There is my pocket-book—give them what they 
waut—only let me ke «a (€ 6. 

«¢ And give them my love and good-wishes,” murmured 
Catherine, shyly, but not wishing to dismiss them so coldly, 
for her desolate heart had been comforted by the looks of 
sincere respect and affection with which they had seemed to 
receive and accept her as their new mistress. 

Major Clifton merely threw up his chin with an assenting 
nod, muttering— 

«“‘ The popularity-secking instinct of the diplomatist.” He 
then conducted her into the drawing-room, led her up its 
whole length, and seated her upon a aie with ironical cere- 
mony, saying— 

«Mrs. Cliftox, you are welcome to White Cliffs.” 

Startled by his tone, she looked up, lifting those long, 
drooping lashes, until her soft, dark eyes at last met his cold, 
rebuking gaze. 

Then his whole aspect changed, and from having been sar- 
castic and scornful, became grave and severe. Standing be- 
fore her, he folded his arms, drew himself up, and keeping 
his eyes fixed steadily upon her face, said— 

«¢ And now, lady, listen tome. The aim and object of 
your life is accomplished—consummated. You have at 
length attained the position to which you have long aspired, 
for which you have long and deeply and successfully played. 
You are numbered among the ladies of the county aristo- 
eracy. You bear the haughtiest name of all. You are Mrs. 
Clifton, of Clifton.” 

All this time her eyes, wide open, dilated, fascinated by 
surprise and grief, met his stern gaze in sorrowful wonder. 
IIe continued—- 

«“ Yes, madam, you wear my name such as it is. You 
rule my house such as 7 is! But as for its pcor master, 
lady, he is your most humble servant, but no lover !” 

Her eyes fell bencath his sarcastic look, and she waa 
hempted to wish herself dead. 

He eontinued—- 

“J leave here in a few days, for the purpose of raising # 


DEDICATION. 873 


company to serve in the con.ing war with Great britain. You 
will remain here at White Cliffs to take charge of affairs 
during my absence. If you really hoped to flaunt in the 
city this winter, I am sorry for your disappointment. But 
there are duties as well as dignities attending the vosition 
ot the mistress of Clifton, and these must not be neglected. 
J snall exact their performance. The overseer and the farm 
laborers, as well as the housekeeper and her assistants, have 
crders to obey you in everything. Good-morning, madam.” 

And so abruptly he turned upon his heel and left her 
One moment she sat there amazed, confused, with her hands 
pressed upon her temples ; and in ‘another; losing all feeling 
for herself—feeling only for him, she sprung to his side, and 
caught his hand, exclaiming— 

“Stay! For the love of Heaven, stay! one moment— 
only one moment, while you tell me. Oh! after all, have I 
made you unhappy ?” 

‘‘lInhappy! You have been and you are the bane of my 
life! 199 

“ How? Merciful Heaven, how? when I only wish to 
consecrate mine to you !” 

“Do you dare to ask me ?” 

«¢ Well !—-tell me—tell me! Aow can I remedy my fault- 
whatever it is? What can I do to comfort you ?”’ 

“© Nothing but refrain from troubling me’with your com- 
pany or conversation, when it is not absolutely necessary. 
Again—good-morning.” And so he freed himself from her 
clasp, and left the room. 

She tottered backwards and fell into a chair, her head 
dropped upon her hands and she gasped— 

«¢ All-merciful Father, do not forsake me now, for I am 
desolate—I am desolate.” And she sat despairing, fallen, 
the very image of utter self-abandonment. She sat there 
until aroused by the voice of the housekeeper, who entered 
the room, came up to her side, and spoke to hcr twice before 
she heard—then—* What did you say?” she asked. 

“‘] have come to receive your orders for the day, Mrs. 
Dlifton.” 

cc] - Please to manage, to-day, without my advice, 
I—I am not well—and very, very weary.” 

*¢ You look so, indeed, madam. There isa fire kindled in 

our chamber, will you go up there and lie dow, an1 let me 
hring you a cup of tea?” 





874 DEDICATION. 





ik No, I thank you—I am much obliged to you 
But—only leave me here to rest.” 

The housekeeper went and closed the shutters : stirred the 
fire, set a screen between it and Catherine’s seat, and quictly 
withdrew. 

“Oh! this will never do!” said Catherine, trying to rouse 
herself from her stupor of despair. ‘ This will never do. 
To-day I have made a bad beginning; but to-morrow I must 
rise and be as active and efficient as if I were happy.” 

She met Major Clifton again at dinner. The meal passed 
almost in silence, and immediately after it was over, he took 
his hat and left the house. She did not see him again until 
tea-time, after which, he went and spent the evening in his 
study. Catherine felt the need of calm thought, to under- 
stand her position and duties; and of prayer, to gain strength 
und patience to perform them. She spent several hours in 
reading the Scriptures, in meditation, and in prayer, and 
then, comforted, retired to bed. She arose early the next 
morning, strengthened and consoled, with a very clear per- 
ception of her circumstances and responsibilities. 

‘‘My path through this intricate trouble is made very 
plain. I must discharge every domestic duty and every 
social obligation, just as faithfully, if not as cheerfully, as 
though I were a happy wife,” she said. And she went down 
stairs, and gave her orders for the day. 

When Major Clifton came down into the breakfast-room 
he found a quiet cheerful seene—a sunny window, a bright 
fire, a well spread breakfast-table, and Catherine herself, in 
ber simple morning-dress, looking calm and placid. There 
was an expression of curiously blended anger and admiration 
and amusement on his face, as he flapped his dressing-gown 
around him, and dropped himself into the easy-chair by the 
fire, giving her ‘“‘ Good-morning,” and hoping that she was 
well. 

““ As usual,” replied Catherine, handing him the paper 
that had just come from the village, and ringing for break- 
fast. : 

When the meal was over, he reseated himself ir the arm- 
chair, reading the newspaper, while Catherine still sat at the 
board, pouring out bowls of coffee, and filling plates with 
‘cast or muffins, to send to the old or sick among the ne- 
groes—these being always supplied with their meals from the 
mistress’s table Major Clifton glanced over the top of his 


DEDICATION. 3878 


paper at hor, sometimes in irony, sometimes in sorrow, 
always in doubt. And she—unpleasant as his manner was, 
felt. glad to have himnearher. I really believe that she had 
rather he sat there and made faces at her, than not sat there 
at all. And she felt lonesome and dreary when at last he 
left the room, put on his riding-coat and left the house. As 
yesterday passed, so passed to-day—she meeting him only at 
meals, And so a week passed on. It is not easy to be 
very heroic for a day, or two, or three days; but when one 
day follows another, each with the same continuous, extra- 
ordinary demand for fortitude, it is strange, indeed, if heart 
and flesh do not fail under the task. Nothing but Divine 
Providence can give the requisite strength of endurance. In 
the prenence of her husband, Catherine was calm and cheer- 
ful ; but often in her private hours the sense of desolate be- 
reavement would come over her, and gusts of tears and sobs 
would foliow. These, like the summer gusts of blessed na- 
ture, worJd always refresh her, and she would be enabled 
again to take the comforting promises of the Bible to her 
heart, iu her favorite text—‘s And we know that all things 
work together for good, to them that love God,” and to ask 
God’s blessing again upon her resolution “ to perform every 
- domestic and every social duty as faithfully, if not as cheer- 
fuliy, as though she were a happy wife.” And yet it was 
very hard to do this. It was very dreary to feel shut out 
from her husband’s heart; to meet him every day with the 
same stern, sorrowful brow, or in variation of that, with the 
same ironical smile. It was difficult to goon with a repulsed 
and acning heart doing mere mechanical duty. She could 
not have done so but that two powerful principles sustained 
her—an invincible love for her husband, and an unwavering 
faith in God. 

One morning, about two weeks after their arrival at home, 
Major Clifton sat alone, reading, in his study, when the door 
gpened, and Catherine entered. It was the first time that 
she had intruded there, and he looked up, threw aside his 
book, arose, and pushed back his chair with a look of annoy- 
ance. 

+ Excuse me for interrupting you, but may I speak to you 
for a few minutes ?” 

«¢ Speak on, madam, but oblige me by being brief. Par 
don me—take a seat,” he said, handing her a chair. and re 
suming his own. 


376 DEDICATION. 


Catherine sat down, felt very much like another fit of sobs 
and tears, but restrained herself, and said, quietly— 

“ Major Clifton, whatever this is betweeu us—” | 

“‘T must remind you that this is a prohibited subject ot 
discussion, madam, he said, interrupting her. 

«Twill not talk of it again—how can I, indeed, wken J 
do not know what it is ?” 

He made a gesture of angry disbelief, and begged her ta 
come at once to the object of her visit. 

Well, then, I wished only at first to say, that whatever be 
the cause of this cruel misunderstanding between us, it will 
pass away. You look at me in surprise and doubt—but it 
will, Major Clifton—it wi//—it must—there is no truth and 
reality in it, and it must be temporary. I have thought it 
ail over, very sadly, but very calmly and clearly, and I know 
that it must be transient. My faith bridges over this im- 
practicable present in our lives, and I see the future, when 
you will understand me. I never did anything to offend you 
in my life. And God, to whom I have committed our cause, 
knows my innocence, and in His good time He will make it 
plain. It must be so. The promise of the All-Merciful, 
the Almighty Father, is pledged to the Right!” 

He turned away from her, with a stamp of fierce displea~ 
sure. He turned away from her savagely, because he felt 
hat, had he looked and listened a moment longer, he should 
have abjured all his evil thoughts, and snatched her to his 
bosom—she was so patient, so hopeful, so beautiful with truth 
and love, that he could scarcely resist the impulse to fold 
her to his heart—false as he deemed her to be. As it was, 
he suppressed the true instinct—obeyed the false suspicion, 
and turning again sharply upon her, demanded to know, ones 
for all, to what this new piece of hypocrisy tended. 

“I mean this, Major Clifton—that as our estrangemept 
must needs be transient—do not, under its influence, let us 
do, or omit to do, anything that may hereafter affect, unhap- 
pily, our social relations with others.” 

“As how, Mrs. Clifton ?” 

“ Thus. The county families have all called upon ua, Jt 
is high time that we return their visits, if we mean ta keeg 
up the connection.’ 

“Oh! Ay! vedeelichels well thought of, Maria Teresa!“ 
he sneered. 

With a passing look of distress, she said— 





DEDICATION. 377 


“T only fear that our picasant intercourse with the neigh- 
bors may not be so easily resumed, if they have reason to 
suppose that we treat them with indifference and neglect.” 

“ Admirably calculated, madam! A contingency has pre- 
sunted itself to your diplomatic wisdom, that never would 
have ocenrred to my simpler mind. So, you wish to confirm 
your position, and extend your connection here in the county! 
Well! the aristocrats of R———, have certainly taken you 
np with a zeal and determination that is surprising. But 
when they have once made up their haughty minds to patro- 
nizc » Lew comer, it is wonderful to what length they will 
go. But you may thank your own fine diplomatic talents for 
that!” 

‘Diplomatic talents! What diplomatic talents? So many 
people have ‘thrust’ that questionabie ‘greatness’ upon me, 
that it mortifies me. No—I know the only value and cur- 
rency I have among the county people, is the value you have 
given me—the stamps of your name and rank. And I—I 
do not wish to disparage it. J] ‘vyish to appear worthy of it— 
that is all.” 

« And you really believe what you say ?” 

Truly, I do.” 

Again she looked so lovely, in her truth and humility, that 
he was almost tempted to relent. And again the impulse 
only made him more unjust. 

“Ina word, madam, what do you wish me to do, for I 
begin to weary of this discussion. Nor is it well to subject 
myself to the influence of your fascinations, for I candidly 
admit to you that I am sensible of them, as others have been.” 

“I only wished to propose to you to take a day, and drive 
around the neighborhood with me, to return the calls that 
have been made upon us.” 

‘Very well, madam, I am at your commands whenever 
you please to call upon me for that service. When do you 
propose to go 2?” 

« At your earliest convenience.” 

“ Will to-morrow do?” 

“If you please.” 

« ‘To-morrow then let it be. And now, Mrs. Clifton, have 
you any further commands for me ?” 

“Thank you—no,” she answered, very sadly, and turned 
to leave the rooin—hesitated, came tack, and resting her 
hand upor the study-table for support, because she was 


378 DEDICATION. 


trembling, said, “‘ Forgive me—and let me speak to you one 
more word, will you?” 

“ What is it ?” 

“It is so sorrowful to be misunderstood. Please, do not 
mistake me in this matter. For myself, I do not care to fol- 
low up my acquaintance with these county people. I have 
lived all my life without extensive social intercourse. I have 
lived all my life in strict domestic retirement. I am so usea 
to it that it is natural and agreeable to me. Indeed, I prefer 
it-—but—” 

“Well?” 

She was suddenly silent. She wished to cay, “ But with 
you it is otherwise. Living in the county, yow need, or will 
hereafter nced an extensive neighborhood connection. And 
for your sake, I would not alienate these people by neglect.” 
But she could not say it. Her old shyness, and a delicate 
fear of seeming to wish to place him under an obligation, kept 
her mute. 

“Well, Mrs. Clifton? If such seclusion is so agreeable to 
you, why do you wish to change it?” 

‘“‘T owe the ladies some acknowledgment of their civility 
o us.” 

‘¢ Have you anything farther to say to me ?” 

“ No,” said Catherine, and with an involuntary gesture of 
pain and distress; she turned and left the room, with all her 
generous thoughts unspoken. When the door had closed 
behind her, Archer Clifton started up, struck his clenched 
hands to his forehead, and pacing up and down thr floor, dis- 
tractedly exclaimed— 

“T love her! Ilove her! It is no use, I do love her! 
Every day more deeply and desperately I love her! In her 
presence all her unworthiness is forgotten or disbelieved ! 
Yes! yes! her deep hypocrisy, her black ingratitude, my 
mother’s wrongs, all, all are lost to memory! Just now [ 
could have snatched her to my bosom and wept over her 
falsehood, rather than have cast her from me! Yes, more! 
T could have implored her forgiveness for ever believing in 
that guilt which is but too well proved! I love her! She is 
the pulse of my heart! the soul of my life! She embodies all 
the meaning of existence to me! Heart and brain—ys!— 
body, soul and spirit starve, perish for a full reconciliation 
and a perfect union with her! She is lovely, she is beautiful 
tome She always was! Yet, oh! Apple of Sodom, thas 


DEDICATION. 279 


she is! shall I take such falsehood and corruption to my 
heart. I must leave the house! must leave the neighbor- 
ood! for here I wilt and wither! And she! how can she 
bear it ? for I think, with all her falseness, she loves me very 
much. How can she bear life so? Uew can she rise each 
morning and go through all tne occupations of the day so 
regularly, quietly, cheerfully, day after day ?—omitting ne 
duty, domestic or social, small or great, from the stitching 
ny ripped gloves, to the keeping up of the county connec- 
tion, in sooth! While J, I daily wilt, wither, in this moral 
mildew—idle, despairing, forgetting all my obligations—for- 
getting that my country needs my arm! This cannot last! 
This must not be! I must get away from here! I musi raise 
a volunteer company, and offer myself to the government, «nd 
in the tumult of the campaign find forgetfulness or a grave!” 

Unable to compose himself again that morning, he rang 
the bell, ordered his horse, seized his hat, went out, mounted, 
and rode away. 

The next morning Catherine arose early, and amo. g her 
orders for the day directed that the carriage should be at the 
door by ten o’clock. At the appointed hour she attired her- 
self with care and taste, and went down into the front hall, 
where she found Major Clifton in readiness to attend her. 
They entered the carriage and set out, and in the course of a 
drive.of five or six hours’ duration, made the circuit of the 
neighborhood, calling upon several families. And every- 
where Catherine was received with distinguished respect. 
They reached home again about the middle of the afternoon. 

The next few days passed on in the usual dreary routine— 
except that Catherine knew Major Clifton was out riding 
every day and all day, and that he was in his study writing 
half the night. She did not know what this portended until 
one morning he said to her— 

“Mrs. Clifton, you will oblige me by having my wardrobe 
prepared and packed at your earliest convenience. I have 
orders to join the regiment within a week.” 

Catherine turned very pale and reeled as if she would have 
falien, but grasped the chair and steadied herself, till strength 
returned. 

és All shall be ready for you,” she replied. 

And he, with a cold bow of acknowledgment, went his way. 





Cs 
oe 
Cor) 


SrHE MESKMESS OF LOVE.” 


WHAPTER XXXII 


“ TITE MEEKNESS OF LOVE ” 


So she strove against her weakness, 
Though at times her spirit sank ; 

Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness, 
To all duties of her rank.—TENNyYSoN. 


CATHERINE remained seated in the chair into which she 
sad sunk, with her face buried in her open palms. Her 
favorite maid Henny, from the Hardbargain farm-house, was 
in attendance. Henny had cleared away the breakfast ser- 
vice, with the exception of the silver plate, which was col- 
lected upon a salver ; and she stood by her mistress’s chair 
waiting, in respectful sympathy ; at last she said— 

«¢ Miss Kate, honey, if you lend me the keys o’ the plate 
closet, I can put away the things safe, without your troublin 
o’ yourself.” 

Catherine lifted her head Janguidly, and pushing away her 
drooping hair, exclaimed, quite unconsciously, and as if the 
words burst of themselves from her overburdened bosom— 

Oh ° Henny, if you knew how little heart I have to do 
anything :”’ 

«< does know it, mist’ess, deary ; but you mus’ jes take a 
"flection on to it, honey, an’ ’sider how it ain’t on’y marster, 
but mos’ in general all the gemmum in the neighborhood, as 
is gwine far the wars.” 

Regretting that she had permitted a complaint to escape 
her lips, yet satisfied that her servant did not understand or 
suspect the true cause of her sorrow, Catherine arose, and 
said— 

‘Take up the salver and follow me, Henny. Idle grief 
is very fruitless. If we cannot keep our friends with us, it 
is better to prepare for their comfortable living while absent, 
than to sit down in useless sorrow.” 

“ An’ that’s the Lord’s trufe, ipa Kate,” said Henny 
“fting the laden salver cn her head, and settling it steadily, 


“TRE MB2EKNESS OF LOVE.” 8] 


“that s Marster blessed trufe! ’Sides which, [ has a heap 
to do myself, to ges brother Jack’s duds ready, to go long o’ 
Marse Archy.” 

“Ts your brother going with Major Clifton, Henny 2?” 

«Deed he is, honey—gwine to ride body-servant long o’ 
marster, to wait on him in camp; likewise in field o’ battle, 
to hold his t’other horse, in case his whichest one should be 
shot unnerneaf of him—Oh, Lord Marster Jesus! what a 
thing that is to think of! Likewise in soldier’s newniform, 
on the bay horse Billy, which brother Jack would sell his 
mortal soul any time, for the sake o’ dressing fine, an’ ridin’ 
a horseback—cussed, infunnelly fool !--I axes your pardon, 
Miss Kate; don’t look so ’noyed, honey; I won’t use bad 
words again—’deed, ’fore my blessed, Hebbenly Marster 
won’t I, honey; but it is so aggravoking, when I comes to 
think 0’ what a slave I’ve made o’ myself to brother Jack, 
éver since mother died, and the ’turn he makes me for it, 
wantin’? to go gallivauntin’ off to the wars in soldier’s 
clothes, an’ a long tailed horse! Here has I been ’jecting 
some 0’ the most illegible colored men in the neighborhood, 
an’ bein’ of an old maid, sake o’ takin’ care o’ him, ’cause 
he’s delicy in his health, an’ he to be wantin’ to go leave me! 
An’ he, with a ’sumption in his breas’, to want to go; ’spos- 
ing of hisself gettin’ his feet wet sogerin?! An’ he "blige 
to wear a tar plaster on his ches’, to be campin’ out an’ lay- 
in’? on the naked yeth! An’ knows he can’t congest nothin’ 
but rabbits an’ partridges, an’ wants to go where he’ll have 
to live offen roas’ tators, like Gin’al Marion an’ his men, in 
the Resolutionary War! It mos’—mos’—mos’—breaks my 
heart !” 

And with that Henny set down the salver and began to 
ery, while her mistress opened the plate closet. 

‘Put them in, Henny, and I will see what can be done 
for you afterwards,” said Catherine. 

Henny obeyed, and then said, as they left the room— 

“If you could ’suade Marse Archy to leave poor Jack, 
poor sickly fellow, at home, an’ take some o’ the other young 
uiggers. Der ain’t one o’ them but ’ould be ’joyed to go. 
Der’s Dandy now, ’ould be willin’ to go to his everlastin’ 
ruination, ’sake 0’ ridin’ body-sarvant long o’ marster—” 

“¢T will speak to Major Clifton, Henny. You know him 
to be kind and considerate. And I am sure, he is not aware 
of Jack’s pulmonary affection.” 

24 i 


389 “rgdk MEEKNESS OF LOYR.”? 


“© Yes he is, Miss Kate, honey! ’Deed ke knows all about 
Jack’s ’fection for him! High, honey! aim’t Jack been own 
man to Marse Archy ever since they was boys together? 
An’ didn’t Jack wait on him when he wur at college, and 
ole Mist pay extra for him? ’Deed she did, honey! ’Fere © 
my blessed Hebbenly Lord, did she! An’ he knows all 
*bont Jack’s ‘fection for him, and he knows Jack ’ould follow 
him to the ind 0? the world, an’ jump off arter him! Lord 
love your heart, Miss Kate, ther ain’t no dog marster’s got, 
loves him more faithful ’an brother Jack does.” 

Kate sighed very deeply, with a preoceupied air, but an- 
swered— 

‘JT will speak to Major Clifton in your behalf, Henny— 
now go and ask Mrs. Mercer to come to me in my own 

chamber.” 

And Catherine passed on to her own apartment, and Henny 
went her errand. Very soon the housekeeper entered the 
chamber, and found Catherine busily engaged among linen, . 
stockings, cravats, and other “ belongings.” 

‘“‘] want your assistance, Mrs. Mercer, in preparing Major 
Clifton’s wardrobe this week.” 

“‘ My dear child, I am so sorry! But I have been waiting 
for an hour to speak to you. The truth is, I have just got 
a letter from my son-in-law, who writes that my daughter is 
very, extremely low, with the bilious pleurisy, and wants me 
to come right over to L———— immediately, without loss of 
time, and I thought I would ask you for a leave of absence, 
till she got better.” 

“ And, certainly, I could not refuse it, Mrs. Mercer. I am 
sorry your daughter is ill.” 

“ And, my dear child, I was going to ask you if you could 
iet me have one of the mules this morning, and I would send 
it back to-morrow ?”’ 

“The weather is too cold, and the journey too arduous for 
a woman of your age to perform it in that manner. Tel’ 
Dandy to put the horses to the carriage for you.” 

“©The carriage, dear honey, I shouldn’t think of such a 
thing. As many years as I have been living in the family, I 
never used the carriage once. ‘The mule will do very well, 
¥f you will let me order him ?’ 

“Mrs. Mercer, why not! I shall not want it to-day. To- 
morrow Dandy can bring it home.” 

“God bless you, ehild! vou are so good bearted’ It 


“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVR.” 383 


is a sin too to leave you, so thronged ag you are with 
work.” 

“No, I can get—get through,” replied Kate, with the 
same troubled, preoccupied air that had marked her manne: 
the whole morning. Mrs. Mercer soon after tovk leav- 
end departed. 

An hour after this, Catherine heard Major Clifton enter 
the hall door and come up stairs. To her surprise, he paused 
before her chamber door and rapped. When she opened it. 
he said— 

“Will you favor me with your company in my study fora 
few minutes, Mrs. Clifton ?”’ 

Catherine immediately laid down her work and followed 
him. 

When they reached the study, he set her a chair near 
the writing-table, and dropping into another, drew a port- 
folio before him, opened it, and turning out a number of 
papers, said— 

“Mrs. Clifton, I told you, some weeks since, that at my 
departure, and during my indefinite absence, I should be 
obliged to leave this estate under your charge 2” 

<s Yes, » answered Catherine attentively. 

“JT am well aware that it is undoubtedly an onerous burden 
and responsibility for one so young, but, when you feel it so, 
remember that you, yourself, courted the position, and must 
be content to take the toils with the honors, real or ima- 
ginary.” 

Passing over his bitter jibe, Catherine said— 

_ You need not doubt in leaving all to my care that all 
will go well. J am not twenty yet, it is true, but I have had 
much work and much experience for my age, so that every 
year I have lived since ten years old has counted double. 
You need suffer no anxiety in trusting me.” 

He looked at her countenance, at once noble and meek in 
expression; he remembered the life of toil, self-denial, and 
devotion she had lived; he even recohiected a certain text of 
Scripture which said, “ By tLeir fructs ye shall know them-— 
do men gather thorns of fig trees ?”? but the demon of cher 
ished suspicion whispered, “’T'was all done for a purpose,” 
and he hardened his heart, and replied— 

“Oh! madam, I have no doubt or hesitation in placing 
the plantation under your care, and I shall have no anxiety 
in leaving it so for an indefinite period; not only because 1 


884 Srie MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 


have much faith in your natural talents and acquired expe- 
rience, but, also, because 1 have more confidence in your 
celf-love. And knowing that you know our interests in the 
prosperity of this estate to be identical, I rest assured that 
you will do for it your very best.” 

«‘ He—in al] other circumstances, and to all other people-— 
so noble, so liberal, so charitable—he never speaks to me 
but to upbraid me!” was the thought that presented itselt 
10 Catherine’s mind, but with the loyalty of her nature she 
repelled it, saying, within herself, “ It is because he has what 
he thinks condeuning evidence of my unworthiness—would 
he but charge we! would he but tell me what it is ?? 

“Will you give me your attention, Mrs. Clifton?’ he 
asked, breaking into her sad reverie. 

Catherine bowed gently. 

And he took down the ‘farm-book” from a shelf, opened 
it, and laying it before her, entered upon a series of details 
and explanations on Loth debt and credit sides of the ac- 
counts, with which it is not necessary to trouble the reader. 
After two or three heurs spent in looking over bills, com- 
paring them with receipts, calculating results, ete., he closed 
the book, replaced the papers in the portfolio, clasped it, and 
turning around to Catherine, said— 

«You understand, now ?” 

‘¢ Yes, perfectly.” 

«As for these heavy notes that will fall due the first of 
ganuary, you must contrive an interview with the holders, 
and get them renewed upon security—as I said before, re- 
member.” 

“‘T shall not forget.” 

“No, or if you do, the holders of the notes will bring 
them to your recollection in not the pleasantest manner. And 
now, Mrs. Clifton, I wish you to keep a vigilant eye over 
Turnbull, and hold him to a strict account. I suspect the 
man. I never have been able to understand how, with such 
a licavy force of negroes on this plantation, it has been neces- 
gary to hire about a baker’s dozen of white laborers, all of 
them, you understand, his own relations—brothers, sons, 
and nephews! I have reason to mistrust the fellow, but 
no time to look after him. Hold him to a strict account, 
Catherine.” 

“Suppose, for the coming year, you should place my 


“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.’ 388 


brother Carl here as overseer? You have tested his skiil 
and probity.” 

This was a very unlucky proposition on Cathcrine’s part. 
He sat back in his chair, and looking at her in steady scorn, 
said— 

Yes, madam, I have ‘tested his skill and probity,’ and 
know so well the degree of the former, and the quality of the 
latter, that I have already forbid hin to set foot cn my pre= 
mises or speak to my wife. Do you dare to think that I am 
your dupe, or his? And now, hear me: In all the directions 
that I have given you, I have simply desired or requested 
you to do this or that, but in this matter of your perfidious 
brother Carl, I command you to hold no intercourse with him 
whatever.” 

“You shall be obeyed,” said Catherine, “you shall be 
obeyed,” and she thought—* Your simplest wish, expressed 
to that effect, would have had all the power of this arbitrary 
command,”—but she did not say it. She was never free of 
speech, least of all to him. And now he arose, as if to cun- 
clude the interview. And she recollected her promise to 
Henny, te intercede for Jack, and always more couragcvus 
in the cause of any, even the humblest, than in her own, she 
gently detained him, by saying—“ I wished to speak to you 
about the servant you intend to take with you.” 

“ Jack ?” 

«Yes. You were not home last winter, and you do not 
know that he was sick with a cough the whole winter, and 
that he is consumptive.” 

«T have sometimes thought so, however! Well?” 

“Indeed I feel that it is properly no business of mine, and 
I beg you will excuse my interference. I would not willingly, 
T am sure—” 

«To the point, if yon please, Mrs. Clifton.” 

‘Well, I am afraid that if you take him, and expose him 
to the unavoidable hardships of campaign life, he will fall 
sick on your hands, and instead of being a help, be a liind- 
rance. Therefore it is much more for your sake than for the 
boy’s own, that I should be pleased if ycu would leave hun 
here and take another.” 

«¢ There is much reason in what you have advanced, Mrs. 
Clifton. Yet, among all the negroes on the place, there is 
none but Jack who seems fit for the duty, the others are al! 


886 “SnHkE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 


too young or too old, or too hopelessly stupid and lumber 
ing.” 

‘‘ There is Dandy, a handsome, likely mulatto, strong and 
intelligent, dressy and enterprising, the very man for an 
officer’s servant; he would be very proud and glad to attend 
rou.” 

“Oh! ay! I know that he is anxious to go; but he is 
your carriage-driver and waiter, Catherine, and I cannot 
think of depriving you of him.” 

‘There are other careful drivers on the place. Please 
take him with you.” 

«“ Yes—but those other careful drivers are awkward, ill- 
looking, farm-laborers, accustomed to driving and hallooing 
after ox-teams ” 

‘‘ Have I been so long used to a carriage, as to be choice 
m my coachman, then? Please do not think of that.” 

«And then he is your waiter and messenger.” 

‘Oh, believe me, I do not need him. Pray take him 
sith you. He is so active, intelligent and faithful, that he 
will be of inestimable value to you in the campaign.” 

“It is precisely because he is so active, intelligent and 
faithful, that I am unwilling to deprive you of his services, 
Catherine—I beg your pardon—Mrs. Clifton,”’ he corrected 
himself, suddenly changing his involuntarily relexting man- 
ner into the old sarcasm and scorn. 

«Oh, caJl me Catherine, please call me Catherine,” she 
said, losing half her reserve. 

“Why? Do you dislike the other name ?” 

« No—TI like it. Iam proud of it—not because it is a 
high, haughty name, but because it is yours. When other 
people call me ‘Mrs. Clifton,’ my heart springs with pride 
and joy, but when you call me so—” 

« Ah, now, do not let us grow sentimental, madam! I 
prefer to call you Mrs. Clifton because I think that the fan- 
cied dignity for which you have toiled and plotted so long, 
ard patiently, and successfully, should be constantly brought 
to your mind.” 

With a deprecating, imploring gesture, and a brow crim- 
soned until the purple veins started out, Catherine, pierced 
by this keen sarcasni, sank into a chair. 

Unpityingly, he added— 

* And now, Mrs. Clifton, I really must eutreat you tw 


e 


pth 


“TIE MEEKNESS OF iv Ee 387 


excuse me. I expect Turnbull here, every instant, to eee 
a talk about the stock.” 

Catherine arose, trembling, and left the room; one ago- 
aized complaint bursting from her tortured bosom— 

« Oh, I would to Heaven this were over—some way !” 

He looked after her, with a countenance convulsed with 
sorrow, groaning— 

“And so would I! And so would I to God that this 
were over—somehow! Oh!” he thought, rising again, and 
pacing the floor—* there is nothing in life so humiliating to 
an honorable-minded nian, as to love and live with a perfi- 
dious woman—to be daily tempted by his own heart and her 
blandishment, to become her dupe and his‘own scorn! To 
be hourly on the brink of clasping just so much proved 
treachery as her form conceals, to a half loving, half loath- 
ing bosom! Serpents! Yes, I dreamed of a serpent, last 
night :—methought I was in the forests of Brazil, and the 
fatal cobra-di-capello had coiled itself around my neck, and 
raised its horrid head to mine, and I went to snatch the 
deadly reptile away, and found it to be only Catherine’s 
gentle arms and noble face. Devils! Never did a demon 
hide itself under a more deceptive form and face !—with that 
saint-like blending of nobility and meekness in her counte- 
nance. Every time she talks with me, she brings me to the 
very brink of abjuring my sincere convictions. I must get 
away from this place, or my mind will become unsettled, de- 
ranged. I must hasten my departure, and in the meantime, 
she shall not talk with me again. She shall not cross the 
threshold of this room again, or if she does, she shall meet 
with such a reception that she shall speedily retire.’ And 
so, torn with passion, he walked and raved, while Catherine 
sought her room, and threw herself upon the bed, giving 
way to a burst of tears and sobs, and erying, in wild rebel- 
lion-— 

“God! Oh, God! Infinite in power and love—-do You 
see me? Do You see me, and withhold Your help? Oh, 
Sod! God!” But soon upon her fevered spirit fell the 
~yord of the Lord like dew—* All things work together for 
yood, to them that love the Lord.” And full of penitence 
for her impatience, she knelt, and humbled herself “ under 
the mighty hand of God.” And then, comforted with love 
and hope, strengthened with faith and Baba Se she arose, 

an/ went arcs is whl 


388 “rnHE MEEKNESS OF LOVE ” 


Meeting Henny soon after, she told her to be consoled, for 
that she thought Jack would be let off. 

In the afternoon she received a pencilled note from Major 
Clifton, announcing that he should leave home three days 
sooncr than he had anticipated, namely, on the third day 
from that date. Leaning against the projecting chimney- 
piece, she held the note, stupidly gazing at it. But two 
days were left before he should depart then—she tlought— 
and he was going, really geing upon a long and perilous wili- 
tary service, and parting with her in deep, unmitigated anger, 
under the seemingly ineffaceable impression of her utter un- 
worthiness—believing her to be guilty of—what? ay! what? 
for up to this moment she had not the slighest idea of his 
reason for condemning her. And now she blamed herself 
for cowardice, in having hesitated to entreat him to inform 
her of what fault or crime she was suspected, and to give 
her the opportunity of exculpating herself. And she re- 
proached herself for that failing of the heart, and falling of 
the eyes, and faltering of the voice, that made her so power- 
less, and placed her at such a disadvantage in his presence. 
“ Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, ** I know my ananner is enough 
to convict me; I do not wonder at nor blame him for think- 
ing ill of me, so long as my eyes sink beneath his look. 
But how can I help it. It must be so while he frowns or 
sneers. One encouraging word or glance from him, and I 
zould look up and speak.” And next she renembered how 
much he must suffer in continuing to think her unworthy, 
and in departing under that impression—and at this thought, 
all that was most generous and benevolent in her nature 
arose to iuspire her with courage, and she resolved to go to 
him, and, though heart and frame should tremble to meet 
that dread look of stern sorrow or piercing scorn—to perse- 
vere in imploring him to tell her with what crime she stood 
charged. 

But though she had determined upon this act, it was 
extremely difficult to perform it. All the afternoon and 
evening he came and went in such hurry, and seemed sa 
entrenched behind his own private thoughts and purposes 
that she feared to break in upon his reserve. Quce indeed, 
for the purpose of speaking to him upon the snbject, she 
entered his study, and stood by the table; but he turned 
around, drew Lizaself up, sat back in his chair, and looked 
aron her with such sarcastic arrogance, taat, abashed and 


“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 889 


confounded, without opening her lips she turned and left tho 
room. 

And so the afternoon and evening passed, and the next 
day, the last of his stay, arrived. All day Catherine sought 
an opportunity of speaking with him alone. In vain! He 
was resolved to afford her none. He sedulously avoided her. 
As a iast resort she wrote a note, requesting an interview, 
and sent it to him. She received an answer stating that his 
time for the day was all pre-engaged. And so this last day 
also passed. That night she completed her part in the pre- 
parations for his departure, and retired late to a sleepless 
bed. She heard him come in very late, and enter his room, 
which joined her own. 

At early dawn she arose and looked at the time-piece on 
her chamber mantle-shelf. It was but five o’clock. He 
was not to leave till ten. There were five precious hours 
left yet. And oh! how inestimably precious, if in them she 
could effect a reconciliation with her husband. They were 
like the last hours of a dying one, with salvation staked upon 
them. She felt that the crisis had come, that she must not 
falter now. Sheknelt and prayed for strength and courage, 
as we only pray a few times in life—with that impassioned 
earnestness of supplication that ever brings an angel down 
‘ strengthening” us. Then, encouraged, she arose, completed 
her siniple toilet, and went down stairs to her morning duties. 
The breakfast hour was. seven. And oh, she watched the 
clock as she, unjustly condemned to death, might watch in 
the last fleeting hours preceding execution—hoping, stil] 
hoping for some saving revelation. <A little while after seven 
hé came down stairs, entered the breakfast-room, and bowing 
with his usual cold greeting of— 

“¢ Good-morning, madam,”’ sat down. 

She rang for the coffee, and then took her place at the 
head of the table. 

He went through with the morning meal, with his cus- 
tomary, reflective leisure. And Catherine watched the hand 
of the clock, as it traveled on towards eight. She was sick 
with apprehension. She could not speak to him there, for 
the servants were in attendance. At last he arose, left the 
table, and went out to zive some final directions concerning 
his baggage, and the pores and servants he was to take with 
Lim. And then he went up stairs and entered his study. It 
was just eight o’ciock, and she had two invaluable hours left 


390 . OrkE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 


yet. <As if life and death hung upon their.issue, she resolv 
come what might, to use them in a final effort for a recon 
giliation. Pale and trembling in every limb, she left the 
‘able, and went up stairs, slowly, holding by the balustrades 
rom weakness. When she reached the study-door she found 
it ajar, and through it she saw him sitting at his writing- 
table—not busy, as she had feared and expected to find him, 
bit doing absolutely nothing—with his elbows resting on the 
table, and his face buried in the palms of his hands—in the 
attitude and expression of the deepest sorrow and despair. 
That one glimpse of his suffering face, sufficed to drive every 
fear but that of anxious affection from her heart—“ It is be- 
cause he thinks me unworthy. I must not leave him to think 
so longer. Be strong, coward heart,” she said, to herself, 
and then she went in and stood beside his chair, resting her 
hand, for support, upon the table, trembling with nervous 
weakness, and blushing with the bashfulness she could not 
but feel in making this advance, and altogether, in his sus- 
picious eyes, looking very much like a conscious culprit. She 
stood, unable to utter one word, until he lifted up his head, 
and seeing her, demanded coldly— 

«< What is your pleasure, Mrs. Clifton ?” 

She attempted to speak, but a mute sob was all that 
msued. 

With a piercing sarcasm, he asked— 

‘Can I serve you in any manner this morning, madam %” 

With a gesture of deprecation and entreaty, she an- 
swered— 

“Yes! ye, I wish to be put upon my trial! Archer!— 
Major Clifton! you withdrew your favor from me so suddenly! 
You never told me why! Oh! tell me, before you go, how 
I have been so wretched as to lose your esteem—and jut 
me upon my defence.” 

Ile frowned, darkly, as with both pain and anger, and re- 
plicd— 

“I have had occasion twice before to remind you, Mrs. 
Clifton, that this is a prohibited subject of conversation be- 
hween us.” 

She elasped her hands, in the earnestness of supplication, 
sxclaiming— 

“Why? Qh! why? You were always just. You never 
judged your poorest slave, unheard! Oh! what have I done, 
er omitted to de* Tel] me! Make the charge, cad see 


“THE MEEANESS OF LOVE.” ao] 


how I can answer it! Archer!—I mean Major Clifton--. 
forgive it—but for all, it springs so naturally from heart to 
lip, to call you Archer—because—because there is no feeling 
of estrangement in my heart, nor can I make it there! Major 
Clifton, then !—consider'!—the greatest criminals have the 
right of a trial, with the crime of which they are suspected, 
distinctly and openly charged upon them—with the evidence 
on both sides taken, and their defence heard, before they are 
condemned. I know that you would not be otherwise 
than just. Will you condemn me untried, unjudged, un- 
beard ?” 

“Tt is quite sufficient to me, madam,” he answered, 
haughtly, “that the proofs of your turpitude are conclusive 
to my own mind.” 

ss] know it,” she said, meekly, “I know it—yet, pause— 
what would you think of the justice of a judge, who should 
say to one suspected of crime—‘ Your guilt is so clear, that 
it is useless to charge you with it, or to hear the testimony, 
or to listen to what you might have to say in your defence,’ 
and so proceed to condemn him? Such things were never, 
surely, done, in the darkest ages, or under the most despotic 
rulers. And is that guilt, of which I am suspected, of so 
heinous a character as to preclude me from the privilege ex- 
tended even to criminals—the privilege of a trial?’ She 
paused—but he continued to regard her with a stern, set face, 
without replying. Drooping over the table, and leaning 
heavily upon it, sLe spoke again, and her voice fell in low, 
but clear, melodious tones, as she said—‘* God and man, 
and I, myself, have made you my judge, and the arbiter of 
my destiny here. It is an awful power. You have made me 
feel it to be such. It is an awful power, because it isa sub- 
tile, invisible power—higher, and deeper, and broader than 
any law. I have no appeal from it—none! Nor—please to 
understand me—do [I wish for any—for if all the world were 
to clear me, I should still be condemned, if you condemned 
me. And oh! listen, and believe me—bclieve me, for it is 
from my deep heart that I speak this truth—if you had the 
power and the will to doom me to death—my instincts would 
teach me rather to receive death at your hands, than to savo 
my life by appealing from your judgment to another tribunal, 
Tam loyal. Jam faithful' God knoweth that lam. Let 
me prove it. Put me upon iy defence. Do not— oh, de 
not persist in cordemning me, unheard.” 


392 “rae MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 


‘¢ (‘atherine,” he answered, in a softened voice—* you aré 
not condemned ; if you were, you would not be standing here 
at my side.” 

«‘ What do you mean? good Heaven!” 

‘‘Tuis,” he replied with a sudden change of manner, as 
though angry with himself for his transient relenting. ‘ This! 
that oftentimes it happens that the only mercy we can show 
the guilty, is not to bring them to trial! To openly recog- 
nize guilt, is to be obliged to punish it. If we distinctly 
accuse, we are bound to prove, and if we prove, to condemp ~ 
and sentence.” 

Ar lis my case such a one?” 

¢ Yc ir case is such a one.” 

‘Yet still I beg to be tried! For if not to try them is 
often the only way to save the guilty, to fry them is 
oftener the only way to clear the innocent. Accuse me— 
hear my defence, and be yourself my judge. I ask no 
other.” 

“Of what avail were it to rehearse your acts of falsehood 
and treachery. You know them this moment even better 
than I do.” 

“ Falsehood and treachery—just Heaven!” 

“Yes, madam, those were the words I used.” 

‘‘ You are mistaken in attributing such wickedness to me 
but tell me the grounds of your suspicions; doubtless I can 
explain them, and clear myself.” 

He laughed a scornful, sardonic laugh, and replied, “ Oh, 
doubtless a woman of your diplomatic genius is fertile in ex- 
planations. Whether you could by possibility clear yourself, 
is another question 5 for I speak—not of suspicions but of 
positive knowledge.” 

His strong conviction of her turpitude infected her — 
despair at last. She said, very mournfully— 

“J know that it has sometimes happened that the innocent 
have been tried and convicted—overwhelmed by a mass of 
vircumstantial evidence—and that may be my ease; never 
theless, even they have had the poor satisfaction of knowing 
for what they suffered. Tell me, I beseech you. I will still 
hope that I can acquit myself. Not for my own sake, 
Archer, dear Archer—but for yours ; it must be so agonizing 
to be forced to think ill of one we have loved as you once 
loved me. I suffer very much in the loss of your esteem, 
but were it possi’ e fo our cases to be reversed—were 1 


"THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.’ 393 


forced to think evil of you, I do not know, indeed I de nat 
know how I could go on with daily life at all!” 

“T think you had better cease discoursing and retiro , 
your diplomatic talent is not in high action this morning ; you 
permit your words to betray you.” 

“To betray me !” 

Yes, madam; for if you felt yourself to be innocent, 
would ycu not necessarily think very ill of me for treating 
you as a guilty woman ?” 

“No! no! I know that to have condemned me so 
promptly, so unequivocally, you must have, what you think, 
proof positive against me. But produce it! I am innocent; 
indeed IJ am, Archer. I believe in Heaven’s justice. I be- 
lieve that if T call on the Lord, He will sooner or later, in His 
own good time, enable me to prove it.” | 

“J will produce the testimony,” he said, going to an 
escritoir, opening it and taking from it a note in a gray en- 
velope. Returning to his seat, he laid it before her, asking 
“Ts this your handwriting ?” 

Catherine glanced at it—it was the envelope she had 
directed to Mrs. Georgia Clifton, and she immediately 
answered— 

«¢ Yes, certainly it is.” 

«> Ah! it is; when was it written ?” - 

“The last day of your dear mother’s life. Ah! now I re- 
member, it was from that day you took your favor from me.” 

“¢ Yes, madam,” he said, withdrawing the fatal note from 
the envelope, and laying it before her, adding, * Do you ac- 
knowledge this as your writing also?’ 

Catherine looked at the note without heeding the words, 
and raising her innocent eyes with wonder to his face, an- 
swered, without an instant’s hesitation— 

é Yes, assuredly, that is mine !” 

Her perfect unconsciousness should have convinced him of 
her innocence—would have done so perhaps, but that, pre- 
judiced against her, he took her manner to be super-refined 
art; and determined to force her to the point, he said— 

“Would you swear it ?”’ 

Catherine took up the letter and examined it. 

«Ay! read it, read it.” 

Catherine read the note, turned deadly pale, fell back in 
her chair, and let the paper drop from her hands—over- 
whelmed by the enurmous wickedness of the forgery. Scarcely 


894 “nok MEEKNESS vF LOVE.” 


restraining a bitter curse, he picked up the fatal note, pushed 
the door open with his foot, crossed the hall, and entered his 
bed-chamber, banging the door after him. 

One stunned moment she sat thus, then started to her feet, 
bewildered, distracted, and with a wild impulse, fled across 
the hall and into his chamber, and sank at his fect specch- 
less, mute, but catching his hand, and clinging to it. When 
she struggled and recovered her voice, she exclaimed, 
simply— 

“7 did not write that letter, Archer. I did not write that 
letter.” 

He twisted his hand rudely out of her grasp, and turned 
away, without reply. 

She clasped her hands earnestly, exclaiming again— 

“JT did not write that letter! It is impossible I ever 
should have conceived, much less have written such a letter! 
I do not know who wrote it. I never laid my eyes on it 
before!” 

An incredulous, insulting smile, was his reply. 

“Oh! what shall I say to convince you? Indeed, indeed 
T did not do it !”” 

«Come, perjure yourself! Swear it.” 

She was silent. 

“T ask you to swear it.” 

She was still silent. 

“« Come, now—will you declare upon oath that you did not 
write that letter ?” 

“God sees me! I did not!” 

«‘That’s no oath! Here’s the New Testament, swear upon 
the Holy Evangelists of Almighty God that you didn’t write 
it, and, perhaps, I will believe you, for well I know that many 
unprincipled people have a sort of fearful respect for an oath, 
which in them is not piety, but superstition. I think you just 
such a one! Come, now, swear that you did not write it!” 
He paused for an answer, but she looked at him in great 
trouble. * Will you do it” ; 

“Major Clifton, I cannot !” 

“‘ Not swear that you did not write it ?”’ 

“© No, sir,” 

“Then that only confirms and seals the truth of what 
knew before, that, of course, you did write it.” 

She wrung her hands in deep distress, and said— 

*{ caenot swear, Archer. I mean I dae not swear, 


“THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 898 


Archer, even to prove my innocence, and get back your 
love.” 

‘¢ And why, pray ?” he asked, with a mocking smile. 

“Oh, Archer! my Lord and yours has commanded us to 
‘Swear not at all.’ I dare not break that command.” 

“Tush, girl, you are clumsy. Do you presume to think 
I can be duped by that affectation of super-rightéousness V? 

“Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven' what shall I do*” said Ca- 
therine, i in despair. 

*¢ Swear, and I will believe you,” he answered, mockingly. 
Oh! why will not my simple word do? Oh! do you 

think I would tell a falsehood even to save my life 7” 

“Dol? Does not an astute diplomatist, like you, know 
that J know a woman who ean be false, treacherous, hypo- 
critical ;—-who, so young, can plot so well, and succeed so 
entirely ;—can also tell a falsehood to conceal her baseness 2” 
he answered, looking down upon her in insufferable scorn. 

Then her whole manner changed. She arose to her feet 
with a certain calm and gentle dignity, and pushing back the 
veiling tresses from her noble brow, answered nobly— 

“ Yes, it is true! If I could have conceived such trea- 
chery, and written such a letter as that, I could also have 
‘ied to conceal it! There is only one on earth that knows 
my innocence, the writer of that letter. But one in Heaven 
knows it, and He will make it manifest. I believe in mira- 
eles, because I believe in the infinite power and goodness of 
God, and in the everlasting promises of the Bible.” 

* Well done, Maria Teresa! really that is the best of all! 
Indeed, your talents are quite lost upon such unworthy game 
as me and my poor estate—good-bye!” And laughing bit- 
terly, he left the room, and hurried down stairs. A few 
minutes after she heard the clock strike ten—then she arose 
and went to the window to look out. He stood upon the 
lawn, in riding gear, near-a grovp consisting of his servant 
Dandy, and three saddle-horses. She saw him vault into his 
saddle, and ride away, attended by Dandy, mounted on cne 
horse and leading another. As he passed the outer gate, 
one look of love, sorrow, and despair, he turned towards her 
window, and then vanished into the forest road. 

She did not see that look—she could not have seen it at 
that distance ; she saw that he was gone, and turning from 
the window, she sank down upon the carpet in the collapse 
of deepest sorrow. 


396 “THE MEEKNESS OF LOVE.” 


(one! He was gone! His presence that hsd made al 
suffering tolerable was withdrawn, and the place was empty: - 
life itself was empty. 

He was gone—swone—not lovingly, after a lingering, ten- 
der leave-taking—that would have been sorrowful enough; 
but it would have been cheered by the promise of frequent 
interchange of letters, and the anticipation of re-union ; how 
much more sorrowful this utter separation ! 

Gone! gone! not in anger— that would have been bitter 
indeed ; but it would have been sweetened by hope that an- 
ger would subside, that reflection would come, and reconcilia- 
tion ensue ; but how much bitterer this hopeless disunion. 

Gone in scorn! Gone in loathing! Gone to return no 
more but asa stranger! Oh, insupportable grief! Oh, hope- 
less anguish! Oh, despair! 

A few short weeks ago the heaven of her life had been so 
serene, so divinely serene, and her soul had reflected back 
the beautiful “ great calm,” as a still !ake the clear sky. 

Now all was changed! Now all was clouds and storm and 
darkness! <A howling wilderness around! A howling ten- 
pest overhead! And her soul answered back the tempestuous 
diseord of life, as the storm-tossed ocean, the storm-lowered 
sky! All was confusion distraction, ohana 

Wild impulses—suggestions of the fiend—darted meteor- 
iike athwart her mind:—to fly—to go away and leave a 
place, where she had been brought a bride, full of love and 
hope and trust, and where every feeling of womanly pride 
and delicacy had been ruthlessly, insultingly trampled in the 
dust ! 

But simultaneously with this suggestion, arose the instinct 
of the wife, and the inspiration of the Christian. teaching her 
that scorned and outraged as she had been, her only post of 
duty as of hope, was her husband’s home. Yes, amid all the 
gloom and terror, she caught this’ one glimpse of Heaven 
Amid all the clash and clang of passion and derpair, she 
heard this voice of God. 


CATHERINE’S REGENCY 307 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 


But a trouble weighed upon her, 
And perplexed her night and morn, 
With the burden of a station 
Unto which she was not born.—TENNYSON 


S1LowLy, very slowly Catherine recovered from the shock 
of that bitter parting. And then she felt so lonely—so deso- 
late ; no mother—no sister—no bosom friend, to give her 
one comforting look of sympathy, or one sustaining word of 
affection. And she mourned afresh the loss of that dear, 
sympathising, maternal friend, always so ready in her loving 
wisdom, always so ready in any trial or affliction to give 
counsel and comfort. And, oh! Catherine needed these— 
_for, like the black, soudding. fragments of clouds left by the 
tempest, dark, despairing thoughts drifted through her mind. 
Yes, she had need, and profoundly felt that need, of counsel 
and comfort in this bewildering sorrow ; but of whom could 
she seek it? Of none—of none must she seek it. The true 
wife’s instinct taught her that. For even when the retrospec- 
tive image of his dead mother, her own beloved bosom friend, 
recurred in the shape of a once possible mediator between 
herself and husband, her mind intuitively recoiled from the 
idea, and she knew that were that dear mother now living, 
nut even of her could she make a confidant—that the reli- 
gious unity, the integral sanctity, the cherished exclusiveness 
of marriage would be invaded and broken, and the sweet 
charm lust by the introduction of a third party—beloved even 
as that dear, mutual mother—into its sacred counsels. No, 
unhanpy and bewildered as she was, she felt that by all her 
hopes of a future happy union, this wretched division must 
be kept to herself—upon herself solely recoil the burden and 

he pain—she “ must tread the wine press alone.” And 
25 i 


393 CATILERINE’S REGENCY. 


even when she prayed for Divine inspiration to guidc her, the 
response came from the depths of her spirit, “ The Word of 
God is within you.” 

ind how empty the house seemed because one was away— 
how gloomy—how funereal—-even the light footstep of a 
thamher-maid in the distance sounded hollowly,-—sending a 
dreary echo through the many passages of the great, empty 
houss—empty, for that he was gone. 

It seemed not worth while to go on with daily life at all— 
to keep up the fire on the household hearth, or to light the 
evening Jamp, or to order meals for herself alone. 

But if Catherine were for once tempted in her sorrow to 
forget her duties,—her duties were not the least disposed to 
leave her long in peace—no, not for an hour. 

Catherine was roused from her fit of deep thought by the 
entrance of a field woman, who, with the usual curtsey, and 
the customary greeting of—“ Sarvunt, ma’am,” stood before 
her. 

Kate raised her heavy eyelids abstractedly. 

‘¢Sarvunt, ma’am,” said the woman, again curtseying 
“ Aunt Field Mary is well over it, ma’am. It’s a boy-chile, 
ma’am; a likely little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am. 
An’ Aunt Field Mary told me to tell you, ma’am, how, thank 
the Lord, an’ she’s fotch through safe, an’ how she wouldn’t 
let dem sturve you las’ night, caze you wur so tired, an’ caze 
it wur the lassest night Marse Archer had tostay home. An’ 
Aunt Field Mary say, would you please to come down der to 
her quarter an’ see her dis mornin’, and how she wants some 
green tea, an’ loaf sugar, an’—an’—wine, if you please, 
ma’am.” 

“ What—what did you say?” asked Catherine, passing 
her hand over her forehead, to dispel the concentration of 
sorrowful thought. 

« Aunt Field Mary, ma’am, it’s a boy-chile, ma’am, a likely 
little boy-chile as ever you see, ma’am, an’ she’s fotch well 
through of it, thank Marster, ma’am. an’ she say, how will 
you come an’ see her, an’ send her some liquor, an’ things. 
Likewise, Uncle Jubilee, its daddy, ma’am, he say, can’t he 
have a holyday to-day, ma’am, an’ stay home out’n de field, 
seein’ how it’s his firstest son an’ hier out’n seven darters.” 

Passing her hand across her forehead slowly, Catherine 
dispersed the last lingering fragments of her bitter revorie, 
ard stood up to her simple, practical, housebold duties. Auk 





CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 399 


then her action was clear and decided. She took up her 
little basket of keys, bade the woman folloy her, and went 
down stairs and into the pantry, where she filled a Lamper 
with tea and sugar, crackers, jelly, and other little matters, 
anj gave it to her attendant, saying— 

“ Take these to Ficld Mary, and say that I will be down 
to see her presently.” 

«Yes, ma’am, sure “nough. But ’bout de liquor, honey ? 
likewise Unele Jubilee’s holyday, seein’ how it’s his firstest 
sou an’ hier out’n seven darters ?”’ 

‘Tell Mary that I cannot send her wine, it is not good 
for her now; but tell her to mention any other want, and if 
it be a proper one, it shall be supplied. Tell Jubilee to re- 
turn to the field—his labor cannot possibly be spared from it 
to-day. And stay—what is your name ?? 

‘Nelly, ma’am. ’Deed it is, honey. That’s my name, 
Nelly.” 

“J think I never saw you up at the house before, Nelly ?” 

“ No, ma’am, likely not, chile, indeed. I lives quite dis- 
tant off, down der on Cedar Creek, unnerneaf of Bushy Hill 
der on de ou'skeerts 0’ de plantashum.” 

“Well, Nelly, who is tending Field Mary ?” 

“Tis, ma’am. Hardbargain Henny, she long o’ her now 
But I tends her. “I tends all de winmnin hands when dey’s 
sick, "deed I does, chile. But poor ereeturs, dey alluz wants 
der miste’ss, al/uz. Inever knew dem to fail o’ fretting 
arter Aer, dey don’t seem to feel kinder safe widout her, 
dough [ alluz tells de poor ignoran’ creeturs, der mist’ess 
ean’t do nuffin ’tall—dere in de han’s 0’? de Lord—not in de 
mist’ss’s. An’ dar Fiel’ Mary, ’ceitful thing, sendin’ you 
word how she didn’t want you sturved, arter keepin’ on arter 
us all night to send for you; but I telled her good I wan’t 
agoin’ to have the young madam wurritted long o’ her ’fernal 
nonsense, bein’ as it was de lassest. night Marster had to stay 
at home.” 

“Yes, there, go now,” said Catherine, waving her hand 
wearily. 

“¢ Nyther wan’t it any sort o’ use, case I, myse’f, dough I] 

hould’n be de fuss to bray affen it, am as knowin’ a ’oman 
as if I wur book edified, bein’ as I has had thirty years 
’speriments, ten years practysin’ on ole Marse Roger Gower 
planrashum, down in ole Sv’ Mary’s, "fore I came here, nuss 
long 0’ Miss Car’line Gower, wid her fuss baby, which was 


400 CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 


our Miss Car’line Clif’n. An’ dat war twenty odd year ago, 
an’ I’se had twenty years ’speriments here. Lord, mist’ess, 
ma’ain, whenever you ’quires any ’vice and ’sistance, you 
ain’t no ’cassion to call in any dem derned, infunnclly, 
roguing doctors as makes you worse sick, purpose o’ gettin’ 
more credit and money for makin’ you well.” 

‘¢ There—there—there—there, Nelly, return to your pa- 
tient.” 

“Yes, mist’ess, I’m gwine now, ma’am, only I wanted te 
tell you while I trought of it, how when eber you quire of 
de aid an’ comfort, you no call to send offen de plantashum, 
zase—”’ 

‘“‘ Nelly, there is one thing that I must say to you now, 
and which [ wish you to remember. It is that when I give 
a direction I intend it to be followed.” 

The old woman looked mortified, and took up the hamper, 
settled it upon her head, and went out. It pained Cathe- 
cine’s gentle heart to speak so peremptorily. But this was 
one among the abuses she felt it to be her imperative duty to 
reform, the habits of idleness and listlessness, and the pro- 
pensity to stand and gossip among the domestics. Trifiing 
as this little incident was, it served to arouse Catherine and 
place her on her feet, and she did not utterly sink again. 

The evening fire was kindled on the household hearth, and 
the evening lamp lighted, though there was but one lonely 
woman to feel their cheering influence. 

The next day was the Sabbath, and Catherine as usual 
attended shurch. She felt deeply the need of religious con 
solation. Her spirit hungered, thirsted, failed and fainted 
for the feeding, refreshing, strengthening ministrations of the 
gospel. The old, sad, unanswered problem of unmerited 
suffering perplexed her: She felt herself sinking into that 
sad and near ly hopeless state of mind, induced by great and 
singular trials to be borne perforce ‘alone and in secret-— 
When, wanting human sympathy and failing of divine com- 
fort, the soul loses sight of the Merciful Father in the Om- 
nipotent Creator, or in other words, of especial Providence 
in yeneral Providence, and falls sadly, despairingly back 
uj on its helpless self, and says thatthe Supreme Ruler of 
the Universe, the Governor of countless millions of suns and 
systems, never stoops to care for a poor, lost atom like itself. 
She nesded to hear the gospel message of love and hope 
wain. But when she entered her pew, and raised her eyes 


CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 401 


to the pulpit, she was disappointed in missing from his place 
the mild and venerable face and form of the parish clergy- 
man, whose teachings every Sabbath morning sent her hone 
with renewed love, and sustained ber through the week, and 
she was pained to see in his stead a young man, a mere 
youth in seeming, some student newly ordained, she sup- 
posed, and she sank back in her seat, saddened with the 
thought that she would not get the greatly needed spiritual 
help from hin; for what could a student in his youth know 
of life’s dread trials? of the heart’s mournful experiences, 
or the spirit’s deep needs? She felt sure he could nov help 
her, and she sank back, resigning herself with a dee; sigh. 
The opening hymn was given out— 


God moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform, 

Be plants His footsteps on the sea, 
And rides upon the storm. 


Ye fearful sonls, fresh courage take, 
The cloud ye so much dread 

Is big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 


The first words of this hymn fell upon Catherine’s sur- 
prised ear, filling her soul with awe—for it seemed a direct 
answer to her thought. And all that hymn, every stanza, 
every line, was filled with meaning for her, and powerful in 
its effect upon her mind, in its peculiar state of experience. 
She listened in penitent, grateful, reverent silence, folding 
her hands meekly, and saying within her heart— 

“ Father, forgive my doubts and fears! I will believe it! 
Yes, I will believe that even this heavy cloud is laden with 
mercy, and will shower blessings! I will believe that even 
this bitter trial—this bitter, bitter separation and disunion. 
is In some way necessary to our moral growth and future 
welfare, and that I shall see it! I do believe it, for I have 
had blessed answers before to doubts. ‘ And we know that 
all chings work together for good to them that love the 
Lord.’ I do believe it.” 


God is His own interpreter, 
And He will make it plain, 


were the solemn last words of the Divine Song that awed her 
into stillness. This hymn was sung, Catherine’s beautifu. 
voice ‘wining the choir. And when it was ended, followed 


402 CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 


the prayer, so singularly coincident, that every word gave 
voice to the deep silent cry in her own suffering heart. 

And then the young minister arose to give out the text: 
Matthew x. 29. ‘ Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? 
And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your 
Father.” And here followed the sermon. The manner of 
the young preacher was modest, natural, calm and sweet, as 
befitted the gentle words of the text, and the consoling sub- 
ject ot the sermon—FAITH IN ProvineNnG@nenthe childlike 
faith that comes through the heart, and not through the 
head. Catherine had thought he could not help her. Never 
had sbe been more in error in her life. That pale young 
preacher had a divine message for her—for her ; an answer 
to ner unsolvable problem; a message, providentially, the 
most direct, pointed, strong, startling that ever fell from 
lips touched with fire, revivifying the soul of the receiver ; a 
meéssage that satisfied every doubt, and calmed every fear, 
and replied to every question as perfectly, as satisfyingly, as 
if Heaven had spoken ; a message that aroused faith, revived 
hope, rekindled love, till all the soul glowed with divine fire. 
She was wrapped, entranced, carried away by the eloquence, 
power and pathos of this divinely-inspired discourse. She 
never saw the young preacher before or after, but he had 
dropped a celestial treasure deep into where she kept it 
safe—a talisman through all the trials of life. 

She left the church loving, hopeful, strong in faith, strong 
to act and endure, patient to wait. So elevated and inspired 
was her soul, that it illumined her whole countenance. And 
when the county ladies crowded around her at the church 
door to condole with her on the departure of Major Clifton, 
and to press hospitalities upon her, and to urge her not to 
mope in widowhood at home, their benevolent purposes were 
forgotten in their surprise, and the first words were— 

“Why, how brightly you look this morning, Mrs. Clif- 
ton! 199 j 

Catherine promised many visits, and extended many ingi- 
tations, and finally was glad to escape and enter her carriage, 
tc dwell in lonely, loving reverence upon the words she had 
heard. And she reached home. And the Word departed 
not from her, neither that day, nor the next, nor through life. 
Ano with the perfect faith in God, perfect trust in her future 
vame. And again she whispered to herself the charming 
‘honghts— . 


CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 403 


“¢] wil] wait patiently—lI will work faithfully. The post 
wt duty, as of hope, is my husband’s house and home. He 
trusts me, at least, even now, with the charge of this great 
plantation. Construe it as he may, it is a mark of great 
confidence. I will be true to the trust.” 

And then, indeed, as she whispered these words to her 
heart, hope, sweet hope, inspired her more and more, and 
strenethened her more and more, and she felt that he still 
loved her—she felt it by that sure instinct that teaches a 
woman when she is beloved, though no word, look, or ges- 
ture reveals it to her. And she acted upon this feeling, 
although almost unconscious of its existence as a motive. 
And she knew that she would be useful to him, substantially 
nseful to him where she was—for with her it was not enough 
to be devoted, soul and body, to his interests,—no, ‘ wishing 
well ” must have a * body in it,” in order * to be felt.” She 
rommiuned with her heart, asking— 

«¢ What, besides the service of God, do I really live for in 
this world? For his happiness. Yes, my profound heart, 
that is it! For his.good, his interests, his welfare. I have 
not been an obstacle to his happiness. I have not been a 
stumbling block in the way of his marrying another. No! 
“or I feel that he loves me as he never loved another; and I 
.ove him as he was never loved by another; and has any 
other the instinct, the inspiration, the strength and patience 
to bear with him, that God has placed in my heart? I will 
believe and trust in the Lord and His inspirations. And 
heart, and brain, and hands,—all that I am, and all that I 
have, will I devote to his service. And until he restores me, 
that alone shall make my occupation and my happiness.” 

The next morning being Monday, she arose with the inten- 
tion of taking seriously in hand the business of the estate. 
This was now the first of December, and there was a great 
deal to be done before the close of the year, in financial, as 
well as in domestic and agricultural matters. The overseer 
and the hired farm-laborers had all been paid in advance, up 
to the first of January. And Major Clifton had left Cathe~ 
rine twelve hundred dollars in cash, for her own current ex- 
penses. All this money she had at once determined to 
devote to another purpose—namely—to lifting some of those 
notes which would fall due on the first of the year. She de- 
termined, also, in order to help to clear off the incubus of 
debt for the coming year, to try to find a tenant for Hardhar 


404 CATHERINE’S REGENCY. 


vain, and to devote the rent to the taking up of the remaining 
notes. She went into a patient and thorough examination 
ot the overseer’s accounts, and discovered, with much pain, 
that. he had embezzled the funds trusted to him for the pay- 
ment of the hired hands; and a stricter review of his con- 
duct, resulted in the detection of other malpractices, that 
decided Catherine to give him warning. A very little ob- 
servation convinced her, also, that the * baker’s dozen of 
Lired laborers, all his own kin folks,” were an unnecessary 
and expensive set of idle parasites, of whom ske determined 
to rid the plantation at the end of the year. She finally 
coneluded still further to lower the scale of expenditures, 
by parting with her housekeeper. She reconciled herself to 
this last step, when she heard of a place in the neighborhood 
to which Mrs. Mercer might go. Yet Catherine did not 
wish to make these important changes without again consult- 
ing Major Clifton. And, perhaps—let the whole truth be 
told- -perhaps poor Kate was desirous to hear from him, and 
glad of a fair business excuse to write. And she wrote the 
following note. She had some trouble with it. It was the 
first (except the lines at the funeral,) she had ever written 
him, and, under all the cirenmstances, she hesitated how to 
begin, or how to end it. She disliked to address him as a 
here acquaintance, and she shrunk from any warmer maaner 
of greeting. Finally, she wrote, as she would have written 
to a friend-—thus— 


‘«¢Wutr Ciirrs, December 8th, 1812. 


* DEAR Masor CLIFTON :— 

“ After a very careful investigation of the affairs of the 
plantation, and much patient thought concerning them, 
I have concluded—if I have your approbation and authority 
for doing so—that the establishment can be cut down 
so as to reduce the annual expenditure to about one-half 
its present amount—also, that the Hardbargain farm can 
be let for a sum, double the annual amount of what we 
can save at White Cliffs. And, finally, that the aggregate 
ot these moneys, saved and acquired, will be sufficient, in 
twe years, to pay off the accumulated debts oppressing the 
estate. (Here followed a more detailed account of her plans.) 
Please write, and let me know if I have your authority for 
proceeding. Yours, faithfully, 

“« CATHERINE.” 


CATHERINE’S REGENDY. 405 


In due time, Catherine received the answer. She seized 
it with an eager hand. She opened it with trembling fingers, 
She most unreasonably hoped—poor girl—-for some kind, 
relenting word—some token of approbation or affection. 
Truly, she believed in miracles. This was the previous 
epistle— 


«Hampton, December 16th, 1812. 
“ MADAM :— 

“Your favor of the 8th instant lies before me. I beg 
leave to reiterate now what I said at parting—viz: that 
I have not the slightest hesitation in leaving the plantation 
to your own exclusive charge and direction—having no doubt 
that self-interest will guide your talent into the surest means 
of recruiting the resources of the estate. Let-Hardbargain, 
by all means, if it pleases you to do it, remembering that I 
have nothing to do with that cunningly acquired little piece 
of property of yours. Regarding the dismissal of the house- 
keeper, the overseer, and the hited farm-laborers, whom you 
consider as supernumeraries, send them off, by all means, if 
you think it proper to do so. I, myself, perhaps, should 
have hesitated, ere I sent them adrift upon the world. But 
money-saving is, I presume, a plebeian instinct. 

“ Finally, pray govern in your own way, without ever again 
thinking it to be necessary to consult, 

*¢ Your servant, 


«“ ARCHER CI.ICTON ” 


406 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 


CHAPTER XXXY. 


CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 


And she grew a noble lady, 
And her people loved her much.—TEnnyson. 


CATHERIN®’S arrangements for the year were all completed 
by the first of January; and with less inconvenience te 
others, and consequently with less pain to herself, than she 
had dared to anticipate. 

She heard that Turnbull, the cashiered overseer, had pur- 
chased a piece of land in the valley— (doubtless with the 
embezzed funds, but of that she did not think)—built upon 
it a log cab*n, and set up as a farmer upon his own footing; 
and thee he had taken his tribe of sons and nephews to assist 
nim. Sne was very much pleased to know that they were 
out of tne way of swindling others as they had swindled 
Clifton, nnd also that they were equally removed from want 
and suffeving. 

Mrs. Mercer, by her warm recommendation, had found a 
very eligible situation as housekeeper to an elderly, single 
gentleman—a planter in the neighborhood—and her benevyo- 
ence was set at rest in regard to the old woman. 

Lastly, she had let Hardbargain to excellent tenants—a 
young New Englander and his wife—who took it ready 
furnished and stocked as it was; and designed to work the 
land and keep a school. 

The negroes had their usual carnival at Christmas, lasting 
till after New Year—during which, all that had been engaged 
in the last twelve months were married, and wedding parties 
were given and dances got up, ect., ect. 

But on the second of January, Catherine caused them all 
to be assembled in her presence, and told them that she 
ghould, on the next Monday and thereafter, set them to work 
ir earnest ; that their overseer was gone—(‘ Thank Marster 
Lori far that,’? exclaimed several|—but that she herself 





CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 407 


would be their overseer for the ensuing year. es You’ll be 
fair, young mistress! We am’t afeard o’ you,” said the 
same.) She waved her hand for silence and attention, and 
then informed them farther—that though they should find 
her hereafter as here‘ofore, just and moderate and mercifn!; 
ready to give ear to their complaints, and settle their difi- 
culties, and reward their zeal—yet that she should certainly 
require amore steady and systematic application to their 
duties than they had ever before given. She said, in conclu- 
sion, that their health, comfort, improvement and happiness, 
should be her care; but that even in this also, she should 
need their co-operation—(‘ You shall hab it, mist’ess, ’deed 
you shall, honey ;” from some of the older negroes.) Finally 
she dismissed them, telling them that she wished to see them 
all together again on Sunday evening at early candle-light, 
in the spinning-room, where she desired that they should as 
semble quictly. 

On Saturday evening when the women were done spinning, 
Catherine directed that all the wheels should be taken to one 
corner of the room, and crowded together, and that the set- 
tees and benches from the piazza and lawns, should be brought 
in and arranged around the walls; and finally that a little 
reading stand and chair should be brought for her own use. 
These preparations occupied but ten minutes, and the room 
was fitted up for family worship. 

On Sunday evening, at the appointed hour, Catherine met 
her assembled laborers and servants there. When they were 
all seated and perfectly still and attentive, she said to them— 
«I desired your presence here this Sabbath evening, that I 
might make a proposition to you. I have been thinking that 
we ought not to finish every day without remembering and 
returning thanks to our Heavenly Father for His daily boun- 
ties, protection and mercies to us, and asking a continuance 
of the same blessings; and I think we should not dare to lie 
down and commit ourselves to that helpless sleep that so re- 
sembles death, without confessing to our Lord the sins we 
have committed against Him during the day, imploring His 
forgiveness of them, and asking His watchful care over us 
during the darkness of the night and the defencelessness of 
sleep. Don’t you think so ?”’ 

‘¢ Yes, yes, mist’ess, we do, we do indeed,” answered several 
of the elder negroes, clearly—whilea modest muriuur of assent 
ran thiwugh the assembly. The negroes are strongly inclined 


408 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 


to worship, and ever ready to co-operate in anything of that 
sacred character. 

Catherine resumed— 

“ We should each do this in private by our own bedsides , 
but we should also do it together asa household—as the 
creatures of one God, the children of one Father.” She 
paused a moment in thought, and then spokeagain. ‘J have 
been also reflecting that you ought all to know more of the: 
Bible than you have as yet had any opportunity of knowing. 
And T think that most of you- would be pleased to know 
more.’ She paused for an answer. 

A a yes, mist’ess, we do,”’ chimed in many eager voices, 
old and young. 

‘7 know you do. Well, then, henceforth we will assemble 
in this room every evening just before bed time, and as a 
household of the Lord, a family of one Father, spend a short 
time together in reading and hearing the Holy Scriptures, and 
in prayer. In beginning to read the Bible with you, I shall 

commence with the first chapter of the New Testament, anc 
read a chapter every night, until we regularly read it through. 
And afterwards, in the same manner, we will go through 
Tavid’s Psalms and the Prophets. 

Catherine finished and sat down, made a sign for silence, 
and opened the New Testament and commenced her reading. 
Never had reader a more attentive or interested audience. 
She passed over the long, hard genealogical table in the first 
part of the chapter, and began with the Angel’s visit to the’ 
Virgin Mary, and read also the second chapter, describing 
the birth and infancy of the Saviour, sometimes stopping to 
give explanations, which she knew the simplicity of her au- 
dience made necessary. The family service was concluded 
with a prayer, and the servants dismissed. 

And this evening service became thenceforth a daily prac- 
tice. And Catherine’s people learned more of the life and 
ioctrines of the Saviour from her, than they would have ae- 
yuired in a lifetime’s attendance upon learned ministers, who 
preach only for the educated. 

On Monday morning, Catherine entered upon her assumed 
juty of overseer. And never were the affairs of a plantation 
better administered than by her. Her ¢ good will was to it,” 
and all her faculties brought to bear upon the business. And 
although she kept a firm hold upon the reins of government, 
exacted the complete fulfillment of every duty, and kept 


CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 409 


rte Avy at their-post every man and woman, yet never was 
a hustiess more beloved and venerated. And certainly never 
was one so faithfully served. All subordinates need—not 
harsh nor 1ax government—but a steady, systematic, rationas 
governmeat, which they can understand and be satisfied with, 
and such an one was that of Catherine. Her administration 
was for her people a very wholesome change from the capri 
sious tyranny o1 the late overseer, who had been accustomed 
to permit the utmost license and laxity among the laborers 
for four or five aays, and then, growing alarmed, to hurry 
and worry, and arive and maltreat them for a week, to make 
up for lost time. Uarherine’s government was regular, firm, 
just and merciful. And sne was loved, respected and served 
accordingly. There were some exceptions, but they were 
very few and unimportany, and soun fell under the general 
rule. 

And thus, in the perfect performance of every duty, do- 
mestic and social, that devolved upon her as wife, friend, 
mistress and Christian, Catherme passed the winter. The 
spring brought the usual accesstow 01 busy work, and she 
gave herself up to its direction with untiring energy and ac- 
tivity. She prayed, and labored, ana w usted in Heaven, and 
Heaven prospered her work, and all weve weil. Before the 
first of June, she had paid off all those feavy notes, which 
had been accumulating interest so long. There were. other 
-heavy debts, but she saw her way clearly wrough, discharg- 
ing them Beote the end of the current year. 

But she never, never heard from Major Clitton. He seemed 
just as lost to her as if the grave had received him. She 
took all the principal newspapers, for the sake of keeping 
the run of the campaign ; and oh! often her cheeks and very 
lips paled, and her heart sickened and sunk with terror, to 
read of the awful perils of war, and to think that he was ex- 
posed to them. But terror was not the only emotion raised 
by these descriptions of engagements. No—her whole soul 
glosxed with patriotic ar dor, when she read of the gallant re- 
pulse of the combined land and naval forces of the British, 
under Admirals Warren and Cockburn, and General Sir 
Sydney Beckwith, from Craney Island, by a mere handful of 
our troops; and her heart swelled with love and enthusiasm, 
when in the same account, she saw her husband’s-name men- 
tioned with the highest encomiums upon his bravery, discre- 
tion, and inyaluah's services. 


410 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS 


Autumn came, bringing along with its other associations 
intensely distinct images of the last sweet, calm days she had 
passed at Hardbargain with her dying mother, and these 
vivid recollections stimulated afresh her devotion and her 
energy. During her administration, to clear the estate of 
debt, and at its close, to restore it unencuwbered into the 
hands of her husband, was now her dear object. When the 
harvest was gathered in, she consulted several of~her most 
intelligent and enterprising neighbors, concerning the state 
of the agricultural markets, and afterwards proceeded to 
Baltimore in person in order to obtain the best possible 
prices for her crops. She succeeded in effecting highly ad- 
vantageous sales, and with the proceeds she returned home 
and paid off several of those heavy debts. 

And so the autumn passed, and winter came, with its lei- 
sure, its stormy days, end its long nights. Nothing occurred 
to break the monotony of daily life until the last of Decem- 
ber, when she collected the half year’s rent from Hardbar- 
gain, and paid off all the remaining debts, except one incor 
siderable note of six hundred dollars. On the morning of 
the first of January, she sent as usual to the village post 
office for her papers. When the boy returned, he handed 
her a letter directed in the hand-writing of Major -Clifton. 
Ob! joy at last !—she tore open the envelope, and seized the | 
enclosure—it was nothing but a check upon the Bank of 
Richmond for five hundred dollars. She let it fall unheeded, 
covered her face with her hands, and wept silently. But 
when her fit of silent weeping was over, she arose, took the 
check, went and collected what money she had left in the house, 
and ordered her carriage and drove to L———,, and lifted 
that last note. Then Catherine had the joy of seeing the 
property entirely free from debt. 

And so passed the winter and came the spring of 1814, 
And still she heard nothing from Major Clifton. And since 
reading the account of his gallant conduct on Craney Island, 
sne learned nothing of him. And still from her loop-hole of 
retreat, she anxiously watched the progress of the war, seizing 
upon all the published accounts, and reading them with the 
greatest avidity. How diligently she searched the papers to 
find his name, and how eagerly her eyes darted down upon 
any officer’s name beginning with a C, which always turned 
out to be Crutchfield, Corbin, Carey, anything but Clifton! 
Oh, how parren was all this war news, after all! 


CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 41] 


But Admiral Cockburn’s piratical fleet was now in the 
Chesapeake, spreading devastation and terror through al! its 
islands, coasts, and tributary rivers; and every paper was 
filled with accounts of his marauding incursions and savage 
atrocities, that defied just description, much more exaggera- 
tion. Hear what a cotemporary historian says of him: 

“Throughout the waters and shores of the Chesapeake, 
Admiral Cockburn now reigned supreme, ubiquitous and ir- 
resistible. The burglaries, larcenies, incendiarisins, and 
mere marauding, perpetrated by Admiral Cockburn, were as 
odious and ignoble, though less bloody and horrible, than the 
inhuman atrocities of the British savages in the West. Slaves 
in large numbers, large quantities of tobacco, furniture, and 
other private property, protected by the laws of war, and 
seldom taken, even if destroyed by land troops, were seized 
upon by the sea-faring warriors with piratical rapacity. The 
predatory attacks of the enemy in the Chesapeake were 
limited to isolated villages, poor farm-houses, and otber ins 
defencible objects taken or destroyed. Destruction was the 
punishment proclaimed and executed for resistance. The 
house and barn were burned of whoever fired a shot, or drew 
a sword in self-defence. Many respectable persons in com- 
fortable circumstances were reduced to poverty by these de- 
predations. The poor were especial sufferers. With shores 
so indented with creeks and bays, the whole force of a State 
under arms would have been unequal to cope with such over- 
whelming aggressors.” ) 

Reading frequently such accounts as this, and even more 
alarming ones than this, is it strange that Catherine sickened 
with terror and anxiety for the safety of him who was exposcd | 
to all the horrors of this unsparing warfare. 

At length the shock came. It was on the evening of the 
day after harvest-home, and she had given all her people a 
holyday, even down to the messenger whose daily duty it wag 
to bring her papers from the post office, telling him that he 
might take the whole day, and bring her the mail when he 
returned home at night. Thus, instead of receiving her pa- 
pers, 2s usual, in the morning, Catherine had to wait until 
the boy’s return in the evening. She was sitting in the 
spinning-room, awaiting the assembling of her servants, whom 
she had just summoned to evening worship, wlen they all 
entered, and with them the post-boy, who came up and laid 
before her the single paper that had come that day. She 


412 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 


took it, to lay aside until after the evening’s devotions were 
over—but a magic name on the outside arrested her attention. 
She caught up the paper, and read in large capitals: 


«¢ ENGAGEMENT AT St. Leonarp’s. British forces under 
Admiral Cockburn repulsed with considerable loss. Major 
Clifton dangerously wounded.” e 


She read no farther—the room swam around her—she 
recled, and fell into the arms of Henny, who sprang forward 
to receive her. Her people crowded around her, in great 
anxiety. But only one moment she fainted thus—then she 
recovered, controlled herself, resumed her seat, and after 
sending the servants all back to their places, by a wave of 
her hand, opened the Bible, and commenced the evening’s 
exercises. Her face was very pale, her hands quivered in 
turning the leaves, and her voice faltered, so as to be nearly 
inaudible, but she persevered, and got through with the ser- 
vice, even unto the benediction. After it was all over, she 
detained them a moment, by a gesture, and then said— 

‘Your master has been dangerously wounded.” 

Murmurs of surprise, grief and anxiety agitated the assem- 
bly, and testified to their affectionate concern. 

“Go now quietly to your homes, and to-morrow perhaps 
I may be able to tell you more.” 

They dispersed slowly, turning glances of uneasiness and 
distress at the silent anguish of her countenance. 

She too, went out. How she spent the night is best known 
to Heaven. In the morning when she appeared among her 
household—the wasted cheeks, the sunken eyes, the hollow 
temples, and the written agony of the brow, alone proved the 
zonsuming sorrow of her heart. 

*¢ Jack—I want Jack,” she said, as soon as sbe reached 
her parlor. And the favorite servant appeared before her. 
“ Jack, I think you love me,” she said 

“Try me, mist’ess dear, an’ see ef I doesn’t.” 

«And I think you love your master ?” 

“Ah! my Lor’?! Try me—jes on’y try me, raist’ess -- 
dat’s all.” 

“T wish you to go to him from me.” 

“Oh! do—do—do—do sen’ me, mist’ess! It’s war J] 
longs for to be.” 

“JT shall. The distance is over a hundred miles. You 
must sick the best horse in the stable, and start within an 


CATHERINE’S PROGRESS. 418 


hour, and ride day and night until you reach your destina- 
tion.” 

“Deed, mist’ess, I won’t let de grass grow onnerneaf of 
my feet.” 

“Very well, then, go now—have you had your break- 
fast ?” 

«Yes, ma’am.” - 

“Go now, then, and prepare for your journey, while J 
write you a pass. And when you are quite ready, come to 
me, and I will give you farther directions about your jour- 
ney. 

Tack hastened out—and his mistress remained for a few 
minutes, with her hands pressed to her heart, repeating to 
herself, with agonizing earnestness— 

«¢ Would—oh !—would to Heaven, I too, might go.” Soon 
she started, as with sudden recollection, and burried off to 
write the pass, and the directions about the road. And when 
in less than half an hour Jack appeared before her again, she 
was ready for him. ‘¢ Here,” she said, “is your pass, and 
written directions, lest you should forget what I tell you.” 

‘“¢ Nebber fear me forgettin’, mist’ess, dear.” 

“You must take the road to Alexandria, which is seventy 
miles from here. When you reach that town, take the ferry- 
boat and cross the Potomac to the Maryland side. Then in- 
quire your road to the village of Benedict, on the Patuxent, 
which is thirty or forty miles further down the country. 
When you reach the village, ask the way to St. Leonard’s. 
Arrived at your journey’s end, find Colonel Wadsworth, or 
Major Stuart, or Captain Miller, show your pass and tell your 
errand, and they will direct you where to find your master. 
Do you understand ?” 

“¢ Yes, mist’ess.” 

“ All this that I have told you is written down here on 
this piece of parchment; take care of i it, lest you should forget, 
and lose your way.’ 

“Yes, ma’am, [’]l be berry cautiencious.” 

‘¢ And now on to me, Jack ;”? her voice broke down, 
kome emotion seemed struggling in her bosom for expres- 
sion-—she quelled it and went on— When you find your 
master, write to me at once; thank Heaven I taught you to 
write! write then to me at once, and tell me how he is Will 
you promise me that?” 

“ Fait'ful, mist’ess—faithf 

26 


414 CATHERINE’S PROGRESS 


“ And, Jack, when you have cnve found him, & faunfu 
untv death to him. Never leave him. Nurse him, wait on 
him, watch over him day and night—do so, if you love hin, 
Jack ;?? again the mward struggle choked her voice, and 
when she resumed, it was with broken and faltering accents , 
“and, Jack, attend—take this note—and when his tever e 
off-°-mind you, when he is calm—give it to him.” 

‘¢ Yes, mist’ess, dear.” 

«“ That is all I have to say to you. Mow hasten. Gn 
bye- and may Heaven bless and speed vou.” 


ZHE NIGHT JOURNEY. 415 


CIIAPTER XXXVI. 
THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


Tae heart once broken by the loved, 
‘s strong to meet the fu2men.—Mrs. Brownina. 


NeARLyY a fortnight of extreme anxiety passed away, during 
which Catherine heard nothing from her messenger. On the 
evening of the thirteenth day of his departure, however, a 
letter was brought to her, directed in the well-known, but 
alas! not very familiar hand-writing of Major Clifton. Oh, 
joy! He was living then, and even well enough to write. 
With a fervent ejaculation of deep gratitude to Heaven, she 
broke the seal. But her face paled as she read— 


‘On Boarp THe British Sure ALBION, 
“ August 21st, 1814. 
“ CATHERINE :— 

“Are you then destined to be forever fatal, not only to 
me, but to every human creature that is faithful to me? 
See what your reckless disregard of others’ lives has 
done !—doomed a poor, fond, faithful creature to a felon’s 
death! Attend, woman! to what I am about to write. I 
was not dangerously wounded, as the newspapers reported, 
but slightly hurt, and taken prisoner, and conveyed on board 
this, the Admiral’s ship—as they did not report. Thus, the 
poor fellow, whom you sent on this death’s errand, not find. 
ing me in the American camp, and hearing that I was a pris- 
oner on board the British fleet, true to your command, to find 
and communicate with me, and reckless of his own danger, 
procured a boat at Benedict, and came out alongside this 
ship. You know the result, as well as I] can inform you. 
Che wretched boy was taken and put in irons as a spy, and 


has been doomed to be hanged at the yard-arm. He only 


£16 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


waits the Admiral’s orders for execution. My own incon- 
venience is nothing beside his cruel fate—yet, nevertheless, 
I may as well inform you that 1, who was upon parole, when 
your messenger sought to communicate with me, have also to 
thank your interference for beimg put under arrest, and no- 
thing but the relaxation of strict discipline, incident upon 
the departure of the two commanders, and a mere fortuity, 
affords me the opportunity of writing, and sending this note. 
Admiral Cockburn and General Ross are now on their march 
to Washington City. And my object in writing to you is 
merely this: to assure you, by all my hopes of salvation, that 
unless you, in your unequaled machiavelism, find some way 
of saving this boy from death, I will never see, or speak to 


you again. 3 ARCHER CLIFTON.” 


Still clasping the letter, her hand and head fell with a 
gesture of utter despair. 

“Why, what’s. de matter, Miss Kate, honey? no bad news, 
I trus’,” said Henny. 

A deep, heart-breaking sob only answered her. 

“¢ My goodness, Miss Kate, deary, what is it den? is marster 
dead? Qh, deary me, Miss Kate, chile, don’t keep on look- 
ing dat a way—'deed, you puts a scare on to me!—don’t! 
Sider how it’s de Lord’s will, honey, an’ let de tears come, 
iet de tears come, chile! Do, honey. *Deed, troubles like 
de measles ; ef it don’t break out, it strikes in an’ kills you 
dead—” 

A gasp from Catherine, and a gesture imploring silence, 
while she spanned her temples with both hands, and tried to 
think clearly. 

‘“‘ My gracious, Miss Kate, dont look so ghashly, honey— 
don’t. /s marster dead, sure enough ?’ 

‘‘ He’s not dead, he’s not dead,” said Catherine, huskily, 
while she waved her hand for peace. 

“ Well, den, honey, long as der’s life der’s hope, an’ no 
’casion for ’spair. Is he berry bad, honey 2?” 

“ He’s well—well,”’ said Catherine, in the same tone. 

“ Well, den, long as he’s well, what ’casion you take on 
50, honey Oh! my Lor’—taint—taint poor brother Jack 
as anything’s happened to?” 

“Oh, Henny! Your master and Jack have both been 
taken prisoners by Admiral Cockburn!” 

. ‘6QOh, Miss Kate! Oh, my Lor’, Miss Kate! An’ dey 





THE NIGHT JCURNEY. ALT 


do tell me how he eats his prisoners “live,” exclauned Henny, 
falling down into a chair, flinging her check apron over her 
head, and beginning to cry. 

Almost heedless of her handmaid’s violent demonstra- 
tions of gricf and terror, Catherine walked up and down the 
floor, with her hands clasped around her temples, in the very 
agony of thought. To save the boy from death—how was 
she, at that remote distance, to save him? Oh! it seemed a 
mockery, a snare, to put forgiveness upon such an impracti- 
cable condition! Yet she thought him no setter of snares. 
She thought over the whole of the letter, searching fora 
hint ; she needed not to look at it again—every line and 
word was burned in upon her brain and heart—she thought 
over the whole of it, earnestly searching for a clue to action— 
she found it at length in the phrases, ‘‘ He only waits the 
Admiral’s order for execution,”’ and ** Admiral Cockburn and 
General Ross are now on their march to Washington City.” 
She thought if she could see the Admiral, she might yet save 
his life--of so little worth as a sacrifice to the enemy, but of 
such inestimable value to her. The date of the letter was 
the twenty-first—this day was the twenty-third. Oh! he 
is probably executed by this time,” said Despondency. But 
possibly not,”’ said Hope. She tried to think clearly, to sepa- 
rate the dreadful chaos of thought and passion, and to weigh 
and adjust circumstances, so as she might decide and act 
promptly. Admiral Cockburn and General Ross must be 
near Washington, if they had not already reached the city. 
Washington was two full day’s journey from her home, 
but every hour was precious, for life and death night hang 
upon it. She could perform the journey in a day and night. 
Her resolution was taken. Going up to where Henny sat 
erying, and rocking herself backward and forward, she 
said— 

‘¢ Rise, Henny, and go and tell James to saddle my horse, 
my rouch coated pony, Henny, he is the strongest and the 
fleetest, and bring him around to the door.” 

“Oh, Miss Kate! does you think he'll eat ’em sure 
*nough ?”” 

«What dc you mean, Henny—are you crazy ?” 

« Admirable Cockbu’n, honey. Does you think he’ll eat 
Marse Archy an’ brother Jack, sure ’nough? I hopes not, 
’eausc you sce, chile, brother Jack, he’s so poor an’ lean, au’ 
Marse Arc*er, he mus’ be tough an’ stringy ’nongh, too long 





418 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


o’ all dis yer warfarin’, but Lor’, "haps he’ll think der good 
‘pough for sojers rations, and give ’em to dem.” 

“ Henny that is all a notion.” 

“Bout der eaten em, honey ?” 

“ Yes, yes—don’t stop me now, Henny! hasten! hasten ' 
quick! quick, Henny! Have my pony caught, and then 

urry back to me.” 

“ But, Miss Kate, are you sure ” 

“ Yes, yes, ’msure. Oh! hurry, hurry!” 

The woman went out, and Catherine sat down and penned 

hasty note to her neighbor, the down-east tenant of Hard- 
bargain, requesting him to give a slight supervision of affairs 
nt White Cliffs during her absence for a few days. By the 
time she had sealed and directed it, Henny re-appeared. 

“(30 fetch my riding-dress, Henny,” was her next prompt 
command. 

“ My goodness, Miss Kate, where—” 

‘‘Go, Henny, at once, and don’t stay to question me.” 

The maid obeyed, and her mistress rang the bell, and 
gave the note she had written to a boy, to carry to Hard- 
bargain. 


As he left the room, Henny entered it with the riding- . 


nabit. 

‘“‘Help me on with it at once, Henny,” said Catherine, 
meeting her. 

‘“ My goodness, Miss Kate! you to be goin’ out this time 
o night, an’ we-dem in so much trouble. You didn’ ax me 
to tell nobody who wur to wait on you; but Jeemes, he’s 
gettin’ ready.” 

“‘ No, no, I don’t want anybody.” 

“‘ Dear me, mist’ess, honey, where’s you gwine?” 

“ Didn’t I tell you? To Washington City.” 

“To Washington?” exclaimed Henny, letting the dress 
fall from her hands, and looking up in stupor. 

“Yes, yes, didn’t I tell you—to Washington, to see Ad- 
miral Cockburn, and save your brother. 1 do not believe 
of Cockburn—I never believe of any one—as ill as is reported 
of them, and I think if 1 go and make a proper representation 
to him, I shall be able to save Jack.” 

Henny stood gazing at her mistress in the same stupor. 

‘“Come, come, Henny! give me the other sleeve around 
here,” said Catherine, impatiently. 

Still Henny steod and stared in a stupor, until suddenly 


THE NIGUT JOURNEY. 419 


all her muscles and limbs gave way, and she sank down be- 
fore her mistress, embraced her knees, looked up into her 
face, and said, in tones of earnest, deep affection— 

“ Don’t go, mist’ess, don’t go—don’t trust yerse’f long « 
Admirable Cockburn an’ his hang-gallows sojers. Don’t.” 

“T must, Henny.” 

“OA! no, no. Memorize what happened at Raison River, 
in’ at Ham’ton, how dey nyder spared sexes nor ages—nyder 
ole paralytic men nor little babies, nor der young moders— 
dem leastes’ ob all. Don’t mist’ess, dear.” 

“T must Henny. It is the only chance of saving your 
brother.” 

“Oh, dear me! Oh, my heart’s ready for to break; but 
nebber mind—don’t go, mist’ess, don’t go. Let him die, 
mist’ess, tain’t nothin’ only but death arter all! an’ Ad- 
mirable Cockburn, ’save his funnelly soul, can’t do nuffin’ 
tall but kill him. An’, poor fellow, he hadn’ long to live 
no how, wid a’sumption in bis breas’, an’ so it on’y comes 
a little sooner an’ a little deffunt like. Don’t go, Miss Kate, 
ear, let him die. T’se his sister, an’ I’se been a mammy to 
him, but I sez so, an’ he’d say so, too, brother Jack would, 
ef he could on’y speak long 0’ you! Sure he’d lay down his 
life willin’, an’ so would us all, sooner ’an you should fall 
in wid Admirable Cockburn.” 

‘<T know it, Henny! I know it! Don’t talk to me any 
longer, though every word you say but fixes my resolution 
to go.” 

& Oh, Miss Kate! oh! don’t, don’t,”’ exclaimed Henny, 
clasping her knees, and repeating all the arguments and 
entreaties she had used before. But Catherine was firm 
as sad. 

“Tf you mzs’? make an effort, sen’ a messenger long 
of a note, Miss Kate. Dar! do dat—now dat’s a good 
trought.” 

« Ah, Heaven forbid! I have had enough of risking poor 
‘gnorant creatures, who cannot keep themselves out of 
danger.” 

‘ Well, den, Miss Kate, who is you gwine for to take long 
p’ you, to wait on you, chile 2” 

“There, give me my hat, Henny.” 

“Yes, honey, who’s you gwine to tak2 wid you?” 

“T told you no one, Henny—where are my gloves ?”’ 

“ Here day is, honey. Oh, mist’ess, dat’s susanside, an’ 


y 


420 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


nothin’ ’tall else. Take Jeemes ’long 0’ you! He’s brave 
as a lion—comes to fendin’ at you.” 

“No, James would need rest and food on the journey—I 
shall require—I shall stop for neither. Besides there is not 
a horse here who could bear his weight continucusly for so 
lung a journey. My strong little mountain pony, I think, 
may carry my light weight to the journey’s end with very 
little stopping.” 

«Oh, Miss Kate! ’deed I shall pray for you.” 

“Yes, do, Henny—that is the only way in which you can 
help me. Come, go with me out.” 

“Stay, mist’ess, stay one minute! Ise trought ob anoder 
trought.”’ 

“ Well ” 

‘«‘ Long as you will go onattended, please don’t be ’noyed 
at what ?’m gwine to say.” 

“ Only be quick, Henny, that is all.”’ 

“Well, den, ‘long as you will go widout any ’fence or 
*tection—” 

“ Except the Lord, Henny.” 

“Yes, honey, sure ’nough—’cept de Lord’s—hadn’t you 
better put on—hem—a-hem—male boy’s clothes ?”” 

“What 2” 

‘¢ Wouldn’t it be more of a ’tection to you? Now, der’s 
a suit in de house, you calls to min’, as ’il] jus’ fit you. Dem 
as *longed to Miss Georgy, when she were a masquerade: 
play-actorin’ here wid de city folks, here one Christmas 
Dey’d fit you to a tee.” 

‘¢ No, thank you, Henny !” 

“¢ You ain’t mad ’long o’ me for sayin’ of it, is you, Miss 
Kate ?” 

“Mad? Poor girl! No, Henny.” 

‘“‘ Nor likewise ’noyed in yer feelin’s ?” 

“No, no, you did but mistake,’ answered Catherine, 
getting into her saddle, while James held the pony, and 
HI{enny affectionately arranged the riding skirt around her 
cet and handed her the whip. 

‘There, there, that will do; good-bye, all of you,” said — 
Uatherine, feverishly. 

Henny burst into loud wailing. Catherine paused and 
‘aid her hand upon her shoulder, silencing her while she 
raid— 

“ My poor girl, don-+ fear I have committe’ myseif to 


THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 421 


the Lora! J am in His hands. TIT trust in Him, else T 
should not dare do this which seems to you so much like 
madness. I trust in Him, and no evil can befall me.” 

“ But oh! mist’ess, mist’ess! If you should arter a! 
perish !” 

“Tf I perish, I perish!—it will be no evil if the Lord 
permits it !” 

*¢T doesn’t b’lieve de Lord am gwine fur to ’mit it! I feels 
safe ’*bout young mist’ess, J does! I b’lieves how ef Admi- 
rable Cockburn or any of his jail-birds was to come fur tv 
sturve Mist’ess, trustin’ in Hebben as she does, how a thun- 
derbolt would strike him down sooner, an’ she as puts hex 
trus’ in de Lord, should come to any harm.” 

“Yes, or a yethquake, if ne’ssary !” exclaimed the more 
ardent Henny. ‘J ain’t feard for you no longer, mist’ess 
dear! Hebben is wid you !” 

Catherine waved her hand in adieu, gave reins to her pony 
which bounded beneath her, and seemed to fly over the lawn. 
She was fevered, excited— mad inspired,” say either. 
Night was closing darkly around her, but its sedative sha- 
dows had no power to soothe her excited nerves—the dews 
were falling, but they had no efficacy to cool her fevered 
veins; a long journey lay before her, hut its length could 
not discourage her; dangers were thickly strown about her 
path, but they could not appall her; her only desire, her 
only anxiety, was to reach her destination in season, if pos- 
sible, to rescue this boy from death, because he was dear to 
Clifton—dearer than she herself, his wife, was, she- now 
thought; and now her life itself seemed of little worth, 
since the hope that was life’s earthly end, was laid low. 
Her only remaining hope was to save this life—her only 
remaining fear, to fail in doing so. 

Her path, for many miles, lay through the deep, intermi- 
nable wilderness of forest, that, rising and falling with the 
low mountain ranges, extended over more than half the 
county. Her path was so narrow, and the branches of th 
trees often so low and interlaced, that a single start of her 
horse, or a single moment’s hesitation to bow her head, 
might have dashed her brains out against the intersecting 
branches of the trees. And in the deep darkness of the 
night, and in the despairing absence of her perceptive facul- 
ties, this danger beset her every instant. But she rode on, 
like a menomouiac, strangely heedless, and, like @ somnam- 


132 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


bulist, strangely preserved. As night deepened, and low- 
ered, and thickened around her in the awful depths of the 
wilderness, the distant howl of the hungry wolf, the nearer 
cry of the fierce wild cat, and once the more fearful whistle- 
signal of some outlawed desperado fell upon her ear. But 
even these appalling sounds struck no terror to a heart, 
stunned by despair into insensibility to danger. And she 
rode on through these terrific perils, strangely unconscious, 
and strangely protected. 

At length, as she descended the last steep, and drew near 
to the outskirts of the wilderness, the lights of the small 
village of L gleamed through the interstices of the 
woods—appearing and disappearing, jack-o”-lanternlike, until 
she emerged from the forest and came full upon the hamlet. 
It was so late at night, that all the houses were shut and 
dark, and the only lights were those she had seen in the fo- 
rest,—the lights of the stage and post office. She passed 
like a meteor through the gloomy street, eliciting only a 
““ What the deuce was that?’ from a loiterer in the stage- 
office, who had seen her flight, and emerged again upon an 
open plain, over which her road lay for many miles. Another 
village gleamed up from the plains—was reached, passed, 
and left far behind with the same lightning-like speed. 

She rode all night, less sensible to danger and fatigue than 
the hardy little mountain pony that was carrying her light 
weight, but straining every nerve and sinew in the service. 
The night was deeply dark—the clouds thick, heavy and 
lowering ; ; she had no means of computing time or distance, 
but farms, forests and fields continued to loom, appear and 
vanish, as she fled past them. She watched the East with 
feverish anxiety for day. But still mountain, meadow, and 
moorland came and went, as she approached and hurried 
by them, and still deep darkness hung like a pall over 
Heaven and earth. Vainly she watched the Hast, for 
hamlet, village or town in turn was seen and reached and left 
behind, and still a wall of dense blackness blocked up the 
Orient. 

A new and very serious danger threatened her every in- 
stant—her poor horse, fatigued nearly to death, was ready to 
fall, and she did not know it. He reeled and tottered, and 
“tumbled and recovered himself many times, and she did not 
seg or feel it! nay, she mechanically exerted every nerve 
ard sinew t~ hold him up, and keep him on his feet, while 








THY NIGHT JOURNEY. 423 


totally uucorscious of her own exertion. Like a sleep 
walker was she in her deep abstraction. 

She was in a deep forest again riding for life, and the 
veins in her arms were swelled out like cords, with straining 
to hold the horse up on his feet. She could no longer see the 
Hastern horizon, but it was growing lighter, and she knew that 
morning was dawning. She rode on, and on, and on, and 
at length came out of the forest in time to see the level rays 
of the rising sun striking redly across the fields. The win- 
dows of a farm-house flashing back the early light gleamed 
upon her vision, and at the same time her horse reeled and 
fell with her. ‘Good Lord!” “Are you hurt?” “Run 
here, Tim.” Call your mist’ess, Peter.” ‘ Where are you 
hurt, lady? can you tell us ?” 

Catherine awoke as out of a dream, to see many people 
around her all asking questions, and all attempting to extri- 
eate her from her saddle. She passed her hand across her 
prow, as was her wont when trying to dispel thorny and 
she looked at them in perplexity. 

“My Lord, ?’m afraid she’s very much hurt! Oan you | 
speak, lady? Where is your injury ?” said the eldest man 
#f the party, at length, lifting her in his arms. 

“< T—no—I’m not hurt—not the least ; is the horse ?” 

“We don’t know, ma’am; [’um sure it’s a blessed thing 
you’re not killed yourself,” said another of the group, who, 
with several more, were trying to raise the pony upon his 
legs. 

«‘ Pray put me down upon my feet. Thank you. Tm not 
hurt. How far is Washington City from this place?’ said 
Catherine, as she stood watching her horse. 

‘Good forty miles, lady. I don’t think he’s hurt, but 
poor fellow, he’s trembling with fatigue,” said the farmer, 
answering her, and then examining the horse, which was 
raised at last and stood trembling and blowing. 

«Can he take me to Washington to-day?” asked Cathe~ 
rine, as she leaned against the fence for support. 

“‘ He?—Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why look at him, lady: 
Besides, can you go there yourself anyhow? Why you’re 
ready to drop now! Better go in and let the old woman 
put vou to bed and give you some breakfast.” 

“Tt is true I’m very stiff and weary—having ridden all 
nigkt. But I must reach Washington without delay; there 
is one | ~xre about under sentence of death. If I reach 


424 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


there in time, I may get a reprieve and save him. I must 
go to-day.” Catherine spoke this, frequently pausing fot 
breath. When she ceased— 

<< Some of her ’lations gwine to be hung, an’ she gwine to 

ee President Madison to get him off! May depen’, that’s 
it!”? whispered one farm laborer to another. 

“Can you let me have a horse to take me there to-day? 
I will pay twice—ten times his value,” said Catherine, raising 
her heavy eyelids to the old farmer’s kind face. 

“‘ Lady, Ill let you have another horse in two heurs from 
this, on condition that you go in to my old woman and tuke 
soine refreshment, and lie down to rest for that time. And 
not a minute sooner, and not on any other terms whatsoever, 
even if it was your father was going to be hanged—would I 
let you have a horse; because I see very clearly that, unless 
you take some rest, you will drop down dead before you get 
a mile farther on your road.” 

“It is true—it is the voice of Providence, I think—I 
thank you very much; I will rest. Please take care of my 
poor pony.” 

“‘ He shall be looked after, lady. Take my arm.” And 
the worthy farmer drew Catherine’s arm within his own, and 
carefully and respectfully supported her to the house, where 
he gave her into the charge of his wife, saying, ‘* Here, wait 
upon this lady, honey! be a mother to her, honey! for she’s 
sorrowfully in want of one.” 

The farmer’s wife placed her in a stuffed chair, drew off 
her gloves, untied her hat and removed it, unfastened hei 
spencer, and asked her if she would have breakfast, which 
was just ready to go on the table. 

“No, thank you. You are very kind. The Lord reward 
you. But—rest, I want only rest,” said Catherine, ready to 
swoon, for the sense of fatigue was growing upon her. 

“¢ Yes, rest, that’s all she wants, or rather that’s the most. 
she wants now! Put her to bed! let her sleep for two hours, 
and have a cup of strong coffee and a broiled chicken ready 
for her when she wakes. That will set her up again, and 
help her to reach her journey’s end,” said the kind-hearted 
man. 

Supported by the farmer’s wife, Catherine was guided up 
the stairs to a cool and quiet room, where she dropped upon 
the bed. No sooner had her head touched the pillow, thay 
the 100m. the white-washed wall, blue window-curtains, the 


THE NIGHT JOURNEY. AGS 


everfzrecus mm the whitened fire-place, the picture of the an- 
punciation over the mantle-piece—all reeled around her 
senses as a vision, and wheeled off, carrying with them the 
outside worid and alf consciousness of being. 

To her, existence was blotted out for two hours. 

“ Wake up, lady! wake up! your breakfast is ready, and 
go is your horse!” 

Catherine started uv at the voice of her landlady, and 
gazed around, bewilderea. Then memory flashed upon her, 
and she sprung to her feet, and began hastily and nervously: 
to fasten her habit. 

“‘ Here is water, lady, ana napkins—and is there anything 

.else I can bring you ?” 

«No, thank you, you are very good.” 

« How do you find yourself ¥? 

Better—I think. How long have I slept ?” 

“Just two hours. I wished +o let you lie longer, but my 
dear old fellow insisted on keeping his word with you.” 

“Tm glad he did. It was very needful. But you ara 
kind, and I thank you.” 

Catherine bathed her head and face, and the good hostess 
combed and arranged her hair, and fastened her habit and 
took her down stairs, where a comfortable breakfast awaited 
her. It was yet but seven o’clock, and the farmer assured 
her that she had time enough to reach Washington by night- 
fall, and that she would be far better able to do it from 
having had this rest. She hastily swallowed a few mouthfuls 
of food, drank a cup of strong coffee, that gave her a sort 
of fictitious strength, and then arose from the table and 
quickly prepared to resume her journey. The good woman 
followed her with many kind wishes, and the good man set 
her in her saddle, and while adjusting her comfortably, gave 
directions about the nearest way to W , the next con- 
siderable town upon the road. Then he gave her the reins, 
and prayed God to bless her. She thanked her kind hosts 
earnestly again, put whip to her horse and galloped away, 
leaving her valuable pony in pledge. 

The farm-house, with its garden, orchard and vineyara, 
barns, wheat-stack and stubble-fields vanished behind her 
flying steed. The country was now open, and she flew on 
and on before the wind. And now she had entered the 
forest, and she hurried through its deep shadows, flecked 
with golden sun-glances. When she emerged again, and 





426 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


found herself in the open meadows, it was ngh noon, and tha 
Augu:t sun was pouring down his burning rays with intolera- 
ble power. But on and on she rode, unconscious of suffering 
in herself, and unheedful of the fatigue of her panting and 
perspiring steed. 

It was two hours past noon when she reached the town of 
W. , and at the very first inn on the suburbs her horse 
stopped, of his own will, nor could she, with all her efferts, 
persuade or force him to budge a step. A boy, a colored 
woman, and then the landlord, his wife and all the children 
came out, to see a lady riding, unattended, who could not 
make her horse go. 

‘¢ He wants food and drink, I suppose,” said Catherine, te 
the landlord, who at last came to offer her aid. And then 
she alighted, and requesting the host to have the animal at- 
tended, very quickly, followed the landlady, who conducted her 
into the rustic parlor. She was now so fatigued and stiffened, 
that the act of standing or walking was really painful, so 
she sank down upon the lounge, and declining all the land- 
lady’s offers of refreshment, waited a weary half hour, while 
her horse was feeding. At the and of that time, she mounted 
again, and resumed her journey. She passed through the 
town, and over the wooded hills that environed it on the 
east, and came down upon the plains. The heat of the after- 
noon was of that close, breathless, insufferable kind, that 
always forebodes an awful storm. The sense of suffering 
was beginning to force itself upon her, and as for the animal 
she rode, she could not, by any means, coax or drive him 
beyond a walk. Then her mind became again anxiously 
concentrated upon the end of her journey, to the total ex- 
clusion of all other thought, and all sense. It was in this 
state that she arrived at the foot of a steep hill, covered with 
copse-wood, ascended its top, descended the other side, and 
reached a small river at its foot. She drew up her feet, 
doubled her riding-skirt up over the horse’s shoulders, and 
guided him into the ford, and—with the water splashing 
around, and rising even to the animal’s neck, she crossed 
the river—so mechanically, so unconsciously, that had people 
asked her, thereafter, whether she had forded a stream in her 
journey, she could not have told them. 

The sun was declining to his setting, and the sky was 
heavy with clouds, while still the air was close, sultry, 
stifling a1d cnpressive. Everything indicated the approach 





THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 427 


before long of a tremendous tornado. The shades of even- 
ing were falling thickly around her when she was passing 
through the dense, low-lying forest south-west of Washing- 
ton. When she emerged from its deep obscurity and came 
out into the open country, an alarming phenomenon arrested 
her attention; the eastern horizon was luridly lighted by a 
ow, dull, red glow, like the earliest dawn of a wintry morn- 
ing. Her road led directly towards this murky light, and 
her eyes were fascinated to it. As she rode and gazed, the 
blood-tinged illumination seemed to glow and brighten on her 
vision, and presently after, began to send up meteoric streams 
of fire towards the clouds. As the distance lessened between 
herself and the awful conflagration, it began to illumine her 
path more and more distinctly and fearfully, until every ob- 
ject for miles around was plainly visible in the lurid glare. 
And then at last Catherine recognized it for a burning city— 
the city of Washington wrapped in flames ! 

On descending the road towards the Potomac, a scene 
difficult to describe met her view. All up and down the river 
and on either shore, were seen in the red glare multitudes 
of fugitives—some seeking to cross, some in boats on the 
water, and some landed and hurrying in disorder up the 
country. Soon after this, she met great numbers of terrified 
women and children, flying from their desolated homes. The 
greatest possible consternation and confusion prevailed among 
these panic-stricken fugitives. The most terrific reports 
were rife: That the enemy were in hot pursuit—that the 
slaves had been incited to revolt, and mad with emancipa- 
tion, and drunk with all manner of licentious excess, were 
perpetrating more horrible and revolting atrocities than those 
which at Hampton, the year before, steeped the country in 
blood and shame. 

Rendered by despair senseless as the dead to all these 
dangers, Catherine laboriously pushed and threaded her way 
down the road, blocked up with horses, carriages, foot-pas- 
sengers, baggage wagons, cattle, and all the miscellaneous 
eiptyings of a hastily and fearfully evacuated city. As she 
drew near the Long Bridge, she heard by the frightened 
talk of the flying multitude, that the end of the bridge on 
the Virginia side had been burned to prevent, or at least 
delay, the pursuit of the enemy. She then turned her horse’s 
head up the course of the river. with the intention of crossing 
by the Georgetown Ferry She had no trouble in picking 


498 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


her way through the thicket under the hills that bordered the 
Potomac from this point, for every minutest cbject on the 
way was made painfully distinct by the light of the burning 
city. When nearly opposite Georgetown, she descried the 
ferry-boat put eff from the other shore, and propelled rapidly 
across the r'~er. She stopped her horse, intending to wait 
and return with it. In less than five minutes it touched the 
beach, and a carriage with a small party of ladies, escorted 
by a guard of nine cavalry volunteers, landed. 

In the hurried consultation that ensued among them, 
Catherine leazned that the party consisted of Mrs. Madison 
and her friends and attendants, flying from the burning 
Presidential Mansion. When they had turned their horses’ 
heads up the river road, Catherine rode down to the boat, 
m.1 addressed herself to the ferryman, asking to be taken 
over. The man looked at her in astonishinent, and when he 
saw that she was in earnest, advised her strongly against the 
trip, telling her that she had best turn rein and ride as fast 
and as far as possible in the opposite direction—that every 
one had fled or was flying from Washington, that the city 
was in the undisputed possession of the enemy, who were 
demolishing, burning and laying waste the metropolis at 
pleasure. There was no need to tell that—the fact was 
awfully visible by the light of the great conflagration. But 
Catherine still persisted in her purpose, replying to his ob- 
jections that some one whom she did not wish to desert was 
in the hands of the enemy; and at last prevailed upon him 
to put her across. 

She was landed on the flats west of the city. Here crowds 
of women and children, pale with terror, and weeping and 
wailing for their ruined city and lost homes, waited impa- 
tiently to be taken across the river, out of the way of more 
horrible fates, which the atrocious reputation of Cockburn 
and his Cossacks reasonably taught them to dread. Cathe- 
rine left them hurrying in mad confusion into the boat, while 
she hastened on to the very scene of peril from which they 
were flying. She passed swiftly over the low and marshy 
ficlds that then lay between the river and the heart of the 
city, and entered upon Twenty-first Street, above the War 
Department, and turned into Pennsylvania Avenue. 

What a scene! Volumes of smoke, as from an enormous 
volcano, were disgorged in massive clouds, and settled like a 
olack canopy over the doomed city. The President’s P: lace 


THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 429 


and the Treasury Building, swathed in their shrouds of fire, 
iNurmined all the scene with terrific splendor. Even at the 
distance of several hundred yards off, her eyes ached with 
the insufferable light and scorching heat. At the distance 
of a mile, the Capitol, wrapped in its mantle of flame, sent 
forth a hail-storm of sparks and burning brands. 

In strange and awful contrast to this ‘apalling progress of 
destruction, w was the dread silence that reigned over the fall- 
mg city. All the terror, consternation, hurry and distrae- 
tion were left without. Here, upon the very scene of action, 
all was comparatively quiet. The houses were shut up, and 
if they contained any inmates, they were hiding in obscurity. 
The streets seemed forsaken by the conquerors, as by the 
conquered. There was no shout of soldiery, no martial music, 
no sign or expression of a grand military triumph anywhere, 
no sound to be heard from the powerful enemy in possession, 
except a distant, dull, heavy, monotonous tramp, as of many 
retreating hoofs. The flames were doing their work of de- 
struction in silence, only broken by the occasional crash of 
some falling roof, cupola, or pillar, or some reverberating ex- 
plosion. Catherine passed under the blinding glare and 
scathing heat of the burning Treasury Building, and turning 
the elbow of the Avenue, came upon a sentinel, eho instantly 
levelled his musket and challenged her, with « Who goes 
there ?” 

“The Admiral,” said Catherine, drawing rein. 

The sentinel lowered his musket with a surly “ Pass on,” 
followed by a low, insulting comment. Catherine had merely 
intended to express her errand, and had chanced upon the 
countersign. 

«Where shall i find your commander?” she next said. 

“<The General ?” 

 No—Admiral Cockburn.” 

* Corporal,” said the soldier, in a low, distinct veice. The 
Corporal of the Guard advanced. 

«What did you want, mum ?’ 

“To be conducted to the presence of the Admiral,” an 
swered Catherine, with an imploring glance. Perhaps some 
thing in her countenance moved the pity of the officer—- 
perhaps he thought her a sufferer from the devastation of the 
city. At least he volunteered to be her guide, and request- 
ing her to accompany him, led the way down the avenue 
towards the Capitol 

27 


430 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


« Did you know, mum, that a curfew had been provlaimed, 
and the citizens forbidden to appear in the streets after eight 
v’clock in the evening ?” 

“© No, and if I had, I should have been still obliged to 
disregard it, for a matter of more than life and death hangs 
upon my interview with the Admiral,” replied Catherine, 
speaking out of the fullness of her heart. 

The distance between the Treasury Building and the Cap- 
itol was about one mile, and the glare of the conflagration at 
each end, revealed a line of sentinels, posted at regular in- 
tervals the whole length of the avenue. 

A ride of ten minutes brought them to the encampment 
of the enemy on the Capitol Hill, east of the burning edi- 
fice. Here, indeed, prevailed much of the noise and disorder 
consequent upon the relaxation of discipline after a day of 
severe action. Nearly four thousand men were resting, some 
leaning upon their muskets, some seated upon the grass, and 
some flat upon the ground, in the death-like sleep of drunk- 
enness or exhaustion. 

A group of officers, with their gorgeous scarlet and gold 

laced dresses resplendant in the glare, stood watching the 
progress of the fire. Towards these the Corporal conducted 
Vatherinc. One from among them advanced, laughing 
eoarsely, as he exclaimed—* Who have we got here, Cerpo- 
‘al 2—a woman, by George! and a young and pretty one, too, 
o judge by the pretty figure. You’re welcome, madam. 
What, afraii? Well, I suppose you have formed a terrible 
inion of me from the newspapers, which delight to repre- 
ent us all as devils. Never fear me. Satan is not half so 
black as the saints paint him! You shall be far safer under 
wy government than under Madison’s. oss says he makes 
no war upon letters or ladies. Ho, ho, ho! Ross—Ae’s 
sentimental, you know! Well! d letters, but J make 
no war upon ladies either, except with Cupid’s weapons—ho, 
ho, ho, hc, ho! What, afraid still. Come! let’s see your. 
face ; never saw a shy woman yet that had not a face worth 
peeing.” 

Abashed at this manner of address, Catherine hung her 
head, until the Corporal whispered— 

“ Rear Admiral Cockburn.” 

Then she stole a glance at the speaker. 

4 flashy. overdressed, vet slovenly perscn, a florid com- 





THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 431 


flexion, a clear, mirthful, audacious blue eye— a sensual 
mouth, and a free, dashing, insolent manner, marked the 
licensed Pirate of the Chesapeake, and the boon companior 
of the profligate Prince of Wales. 

What, shy yet! By your leave, my dear!” said the 
Adiniral, chucking his hand under Catherine’s chin, and 
raising her face. Poor Kate’s face, as well as her hair and 
her dress, was stained with dust and tears and perspiration, 
and her features were pale and haggard with sorrow, anxiety 
and extreme fatigue. The profligate dropped her chin with 
a start, as if it had burnt hin, exclaiming— 

“ Whisht! Ugh! Brownies and kelpies, and witches on 
broomsticks! Oh! ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! Ugh’! what a face! 
Here, Corporal, I pass her over to you: you seem to be kindly 
disposed. There is no accounting for tastes, so—Oh! ho, 
ho, ho, ho, ho! I make you a present of her. OA-A! 
where can | find a dozen pretty girls to get the cross out of 
my eyes 2?” 

Mortified, repulsed, despairing, Catherine stood by her 
horse, with one arm thrown around his neck, and her head 
resting upon it. 

A low hum of voices around her, seemingly incident upon 
some one’s arrival on the scene of action, and then a sweet, 
deep-toned voice near her, inquirmg— 

“Can we be so happy as to serve you in any way, lady 
I should be most grateful for the opportunity. To be able 
to render any service is always a most soothing amelioration 
to me of the harsh duties of war.” 

‘“¢ Major-General Ross,’? whispered the friendly Corporal, 
stooping to her ear. 

Catherine raised her head, and saw, bending towards her, 
a very handsome man, in the early prime of life, of a grave, 
sweet, thoughtful, and somewhat melancholy expression of 
sountenance, who regarding her with respectful sympathy, 
repeated his offers of service, saying— 

“If Iam so fortunate as to be able to assist you, lady, 
pray do not hesitate a moment to command me.” 

“Thank you, thank you—I—wished to speak with the 
Admiral—but—” 

‘¢With me! oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! I beg your pardon! [ 
oeg to decline the honor! Talk to Ross—he’s sentimental, 
and—responsible! the father of a family, ect.-- ‘a married 


439 THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


man myself, with several sweet children, and venerate the 
anctity,’* ect. Eh, Ross? Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” 

«Speak with me, lady. Ishall be most happy to aid you. 
What is it? Have you or yours suffered, or received any 
injury by our soldiers that I can redress? Can I help you 
in any way ?”’ asked General Ross, in gentle, earnest tones. 

“ Yes, yes, I think you may have power to do me a vital 
service.” 

*‘ Nae it, lady. My word is pledged.” 

“ His word is pledged! Ob, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho !—pledged 
to a scare~crow pledged to a kelpie!—pledged to a witch 
on a broomstick! Oh, ho, ho,ho, ho, ho! OA-A!” shouted 
the coarse Adiiral. 

The eye of Ross flashed for an instant, but sheathed its 
fire as he turned to Catherine, and, taking her hand respeet- 
fully, drew her aside from the proximity of the brutal Cock- 
burn, who, in addition to his other graces, was now doubly 
inflamed by drink and triumph. 

“ A tryste! a tryste-with the Queen of the Kelpies! Oh, 
ho, ho, ho, he, ho!”? roared the Aduiiral, holding his sides, 
and bending forward to shout his insulting laughter, and then 
stalking off.” 

*¢ Wxplain, lady. I shall be proud to serve you. Pray 
have confidence in me, madam, and believe in the sincerity 
of my words,” said General Ross, still holding her hand, 
while she passed her other one slowly to and fro across her 
forehead, as was her habit when embarrassed, trying, ‘o clear 
her mind and arrange her thoughts. 

But as soon as she was relieved from the presence 2f the 
coarse and insolent Cockburn, she recovered breath and self- 
possession, and spoke clearly and to the point. 

“ T thank you, sir,—I deeply thank you. I will tell you. 
I heard, in my distant mountain home, that my husband, 
Major Clifton, of the Regiment of Volunteers, had 
been dangerously wounded in the action at St. Leonard’s. I 
did not hear that he had also been taken prisoner. Believing 
him to be still in the American camp, and fearing that he 
needled more constant attention than he could get, and feel- 
ing very anxious to hear directly from him, I sent his favorite 
bervant to find him, dirccting the man to remain with him, 





—_— eS 


* Words used by the ee ie and unfortunate General Ross. while 
‘ts ing to sxothe the fears of Mrs E 





THE NIGHT JOURNEY. AX" 


‘and tc write me of his state. He, this servant, was a poor, 
rustic negro, sir, totally igrorant of the usages of war. 
When he reached the American 2amp, he discovered that his 
master was a prisoner on board the British fleet. He pro- 
cured a boat and boarded the Albion. He was taken asa 
spy, of course, and, to end the miserable story, awaits only 
the orders of Admiral Cockburn to be executed. I heard 
that yesterday evening, and I instantly set off, and between 
that hour and this have ridden more than seventy miles, al- 
most without stopping for food or rest, and entered the city 
to-night alone, when all were flying from it, to beg this man’s 
life from the Admiral. Now, you know, you know, how vital 
is my request, my prayer.” 

‘You could not have done more for your father, lady !” 
replied General Ross, with a gentle, earnest wonder on his 
fine countenance. ‘ You could not have done more for your 
father than you have done for this slave.” 

«Do not wonder, sir. He would have laid down his life 
for us. But, oh, sir! time presses—death threatens '” 

“Be at peace, lady! The life or death of this slave, of 
such vital importance to you, isreally a matter of so little 
moment to Admiral Cockburn, that I have not the slightest 
hesitation in promising to secure for you his pardon and 
liberation.” 

«¢ Oh, may the Lord forever bless you, sir! I never, never 
can tell you how grateful I am—” 

«‘ Peace, peace, dear lady. It is absolutely nothing. I 
would to Heaven I could really do anything to merit your 
kind word and kind remembrance, when others are cursing 
me for what the stern duties of war force me to do !” 

‘¢T shall ever remember you, sir, with the deepest grati- 
tude.” 

‘¢ And now, Mrs. Clifton, you must have rest and refresh- 
ment. My head-quarters are at Doctor KH Prey a if 
amiable family are at home. They will gladly afford you 
comfort and assistance. Permit me to conduct. you thither.” 

He replaced her carefully in her saddle, and taking the 
reins, led her horse until they reached the commodious man. 
sion of Doctor K Here he imtroduced Mrs. Clifton, 
who was received with respect and sympathy. Leaving her 
in the care of the kind and hospitable family, he then set out 
to seek Admiral Cockburn. 

Catherine was shown to a chamber, and afforded the re- 








THE NIGHT JOURNEY. 


t. sshments of a partial bath and food. After which she lay 
duwn on a sofa, to rest, and await the return of the gentle 
and generous Ross. 

In about half an hour she was summoned to the parlor, 
where she found him standing. He advanced to meet her, 
and said-— 

“‘ Mrs. Clifton, I have the pardon here, but I very much 
fear—” and his face clouded over—* I very much fear it will 
be too late.” 

“© ¢ Too late !’”? echoed Catherine, sinking into a chair, as 
she repeated the saddest words in the language—* Too late. 
Is he dead ?”’ she asked, covering her face with her hands. 

«No. Mrs. Clifton, but he has been ordered for execution 
at eight o’clock to-morrow.” 

“IT 1s NoT TOO LATE!” exclaimed Catherine, starting 
up, with electric energy. ‘Give me—oh! give me the pars 
dor !—I will take it there in time !” 

“« Lady, the distance is over forty miles—and the necessary 
delays, and the dangers that threaten a young female, travel- 
ing alone by night, through a country infested—” 

“Oh! give me the pardon! give it me, I implore you! 
I will take it there safely, and in time! Heaven has pro- 
tected me through dangers as great, and Heaven will pro 
tect me through these! Oh, for the love of Heaven, do not 
hesitate! Every moment is inestimable when a ‘too date’ 
threatens us! Give me the pardon !” 

“«‘ Nay, lady, I can send a courier with the pardon, rather 
than that you should go, for many reasons.” 

«“ Oh, no, no, your courier would want to stop, to eat and 
drink—or he might fall in with some of our people, and be 
killed or taken,—or if he escaped, through his explanation 
of his errand—why, that very errand would be rendered fu- 
tile, by the time lost in investigation. J shall pause for no- 
thing. Heaven will protect and speed me. Oh! give me 
the pardon. Donotdelay! .4// depends upon promptitude. 
AJis! excuse my importunity ! but give me the pardon !” 

General Ross attempted to dissuade her; but neither ar- 
guments nor persuasions had the least effect upon her resolu- 
tion. At last, overruled by her earnestness, vehemence and 
faith, he yielded—handed her the pardon, and went out te 
see if he could procure her a fresh horse. 

When he entered again, after a successful search, he found 
her equirped foi ber second night’s journey, and standing ir 


THE NIGJIT JOURNEY. 138 


the midst of her astunished hosts. He informed her that her 
horse was ready, and also that he had provided her a guard, 
to escort her beyond Bladensburg. Then she took a hasty 
and grateful leave of her amiable entertainers, and accept- 
ing the arm of the Major-General, left the house. 

As General Ross placed her in the saddle, and handed her 
the reins, he said—- 

‘« Heaven protect and speed you, lady. Farewell—and 
sometimes remember me.” 

‘< will remember and pray for General Ross while I live,’ 
said Catherine. And then she put whip to her horse, and 
rode away, uvheld oy a wonderful energy. 


b] 


428 THE GOA 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 
THE GOAL. 


Th->’ waves, thro’ storms and clones 
He gently clears thy way, 

Trust thon his grace—so shal] the night 
Scon end in joyous day.—Moravian. 


INCALCULARLE is the power of the spirit over the fcsh. 
In the intense absorption of her soul by one hope, Catherine 
was carried above all consciousness of the exces.:.e exertion, 
and ail s.»se of the extreme fatigue that was oppressing and 
harassing her bodily powers almost to dissolution. Buta 
watchful Proviaence, that had already thrice arrested her 
dreadful journey, now a fourth time interposed to compel her 
to rest. She had parted with her escort, when past the Brit- 
ish outposts, beyond Bladensburg. And by the time she 
had reached Long Old Hields, the storm, that had been 
threatening all the evening, burst suddenly, with terrible 
violence, driving her for shelter mto-a farm-house. And 
again, wondering and compassionate hosts persuaded her to 
lie down and repose, and once more, as soon as her weary 
head dropped upon the pillow, deep sleep, like an irresistible 
mandate of the All Merciful, fell upon her, and, despite of 
pain of body and anguish of mind, she slept soundly for 
several hours ;—slept, as the prisoner sleeps the night before 
execution ;—slept, as the martyr sleeps in the intervals of 
torture upon the rack ;—slept, while the tempest raged with 
awful fury ;—while the rain fell in torrents, and the wind 
rushed through the forest, carrying destruction on its wings; 
while gigantic trees were twisted off, or torn up by the 
roots, and great rivers were swelled to floods ;—she slept the 
deep, dreamless sleep “God giveth His beloved.” Probably 
to this Providential sleep she owed the preservation of her 
life, for the spirit that can goad the flesh to exertion unto 
death, cannot save it from dissolution. 


THE “GOAL. 437 


When she awoke, the storm had passed, and the stars were 
shinirg dimly in the early dawn of day. She started up, re- 
morseful and affrighted to find she had slept so long, and te 
recollect that her journey was not half over. It was now 
four o’clock, and she had yet nearly thirty miles to ride be- 
fore eight, or all was lost! Her pitying hosts tried to per- 
suade her to wait and partake of their early breakfast, which, 
they said, would be ready in half an hour; but finding her 
bent upon setting forward, they hastily got some refreshment 
together, and permitted her to mount her horse and depart. 
But she had not proceeded many yards, before she found that 
the motion of her steed gave her great pain—pain so sharp, 
as to force itself to be felt through all her intense mental 
abstraction. She checked her horse’s trot, and put him into 
a gallop, whose smooth, wavy motion, somewhat relieved her 
distress. 

The morning was sparklingly brilliant after the storm ; the 
forest trees and the grass were spangled by the rain-drops, 
and the slanting rays of the rising run striking deep into the 
foliage, flecked all its green leaves with golden light. Her 
horse was fresh, his blood was up, and on they sped like au 
arrow through the woods. 

Suddenly she stopped and reeled backwards—that ora 
pain again; it pierced her side and chest like a sword; 
caught away her breath, and caused the drops of alae 
to burst from her pale forehead. But not fer pain, or even 
vr the fear of death, must she pause. She might perish, but 
her purpose must first be accomplished, if possible. 

Bracing her nerves, and steeling her soul against the sense 
of suffering, she put whip to her horse, and flew on, as before 
the wind, leaving forest, meadow and hamlet—farm-house, 
field and flood, far behind her. Again and again the sharp 
agony arrested her, like the hand of death—but in vain to 
stop her progress—each time the pang could only delay her a 
moment, and then on and on she sped, spurning the ground 
away in her desperate flight. 

Before her, in the distance, glimmered the blue Patuxent. 
the longed-for goal. Oh! that river; for an hour past it 
had seemed as near as now. Would she ever approach it? 
On and on she sped, while woods and towns and plains whirled 
behind her in a mad reel. A fearful change was coming over 
her. The sense of pain, with all other sense, had gradually 
left her. A stupor of weariness supervened; hor brain 


438 THE GOAL. 


reeled, her sight failed. Oh! that river, how it gleamed 
and disappeared, and gleamed again before her. Would she 
ever, ever be nearer to it? How dim the sunlight was, and 
how unsteady the ground; and the boundaries of the sky and ~ 
earth were molten together and lost; and it was no longer 
the action of her horse, but the dreadful rocking and up- 
heaving of the ground, that kept her moving, moving, moving, 
forever. Qh! that river! how it glimmered and sparkled, 
and sparkled and flashed into her brain. Would she ever, 
ever, ever reach it, or was she going round in a circle forever ? 
Reason was failing at last—past, present and future—things 
that were, and things that seemed, swam thickly together 
upon brain and heart; surely the hour of dissolution had 
come, for dense darkness and heaviness were settling like 
grave clods upon brain and heart. Oh! God, that river! -- 
had sbe really reached it at last, or was it an illusion of de- 
lirtum? Its waves rolled and flashed in silvery splendor at 
the foot of the hill, below her feet! But what was that? 
Angels in Heaven! what was that? <A sight to call back 
ebbing life! Down in the dell, the glitter of bayonets and 
the glow of scarlet coats—an open square of British infantry, 
enclosing an execution scene! Clutching the pardon from 
her bosom, and holding it aloft at arm’s length, she roused 
her fast failing strength for a last effort, and hurled herself 
and steed furiously down the hill upon the scene of doom. 
The flash of steel around her—the gallows tree—the cart— 

the prisoner—the fatal noose—and more than all, close be- 
side her, the form of him—her own—her Clifton—madly 
loved in life and death, and then—darkness closed in upon 
her life, and all was lost. 

As the reins feil from powerless hands upon the hurse’s 
neck, the noble animal stood stock still; had he lifted a leg, 
it must have been fatal to the swooning rider; but he stood 
like a statue, while her form swayed to and fro for a moment, 
and then Archer Clifton sprang forward and received her in 
his arms. He picked up the paper as it fell from her stiffen- 
ing fingers, and guessing its purport, passed it to the officer 
in command. nen he sank upon one knee, drew her insen- 
sible form to and supported it against his breast, while he 
antied her hat and loosened her spencer. 

A little bustle ensued around him; but he did not heed it. 
bending over Catherine. The execution was stayed, the pri- 
srver released and poor Jack, half-dead with terror before. 


THE GOAL. 439 


and half mad with joy now, had still strength and sense and - 
affection enough left to run to a spring hard by, and dip up 
his hat full of water, and the next instant he was kneeling 
with it by the side of his mistress, to bathe her hands. 

«© Who is she?’ ‘ Where did she come from?”? & What 
is her name?” ‘* Who zs the lady?” “ Do you know her, 
sir 7’ asked some of the officers, crowding around with offers 
of assistance. 

“This lady is my wife, gentlemen! Air! air, if you 
please !”’ exclaimed Archer Clifton, waving them off, and 
giving his sole attention to Catherine. ‘Kate !” 

The sound of that thrilling voice—the clasp of those thril- 
ling arms, had power to call back her spirit from the confines 
of the invisible world. Her pale, pale eyelids quivered. 

“‘ Kate !”’ he exclaimed again, raising her higher upon his 
breast. 

A shuddering sigh convulsed her bosom—her languid eyes 
unclosed. 

¢ Kate” 

«Yes, Kate!’ she echoed, nodding her head with that 
quick, nervous, spasmodic gesture common to her. 

“And why have you done this thing? Why have you 
placed yourself en scene like a third-rate opera dancer ?”” 

She raised her fading eyes to his face, pleadingly, mur- 
muring— 

«¢ Your wishes—the reprieve !”” 

‘Well, what of that?’ Was there no one to bring it 
but yourself?” 

Too feeble to enter upon the long explanation required, 
she only shook her head, murmuring at intervals— 

“ Forgive—forgive—I could not see him die. Patience, 
patience—indeed, I will not trouble you, love,—I will go 
away again, far away! Maybe God will let me die!” 

The last words were breathed forth in a long, deep sigh, 
and she sank away again into insensibility. 

Poor Jack, kneeling by her side, bathed her hand with the 
water he had brought, and with his tears that fell like rain. 

Major Clifton laid her head down upon the green sward, 
and rising to his feet, addressed the officer in command, 
gaying— 

‘Sir, I am a prisoner of war, as you know. Yet, my wife 
is in a dging state here, and I wish to convey her to a place 
of safety an” repose.” 


440 THE GOAL. 


‘“‘ Major Clifton will consider himself on his parole, and 
command any assistance we may be able to render him or his 
heroic wife,” said Captain ———,, at the same time showing 
him a note from General Ross to that effect, which had been 
folded in with the pardon. 

“‘T think, sir,’ added the officer, “ that there is a farm- 
house near here, belonging to a planter of the name of 
Greenfield, where your lady would be hospitably received, 
and well taken care of; perhaps you had better send your 
servant thither to borrow a carriage.” 

Thanking the officer for his civility and good advice, Major 
Clifton immediately acted upon it by dispatching Jack to the 
house, while he himself supported Catherine until the arrival 
of the carriage. He then placed her in it, and she was 
driven slowly to * Greenwood.” Here she was kindly re- 
ceived by the planter’s wife and sisters, who tenderly un- 
dressed her and put her to bed. <A physician was summoned, 
who, when he arrived and looked at her and felt her pulse, 
and heard the circumstances, pronounced her ivsensibility to 
be not a swoon, but a trance-coma—the result of excessive 
fatigue of mind and body. He said that such stupors, if - 
prematurely broken, might end in convulsions and mad- 
ness—or if left, too, to themselves, might termimate m 
death ; that her state was exceedingly critical, and that hex 
rest was by no means to be broken, unless there was a per- 
ceptible failure in her pulse, in which case the stimulants 
and restorative he_should leave must be applied and admin- 
istered, and himself instantly summoned. And so he left 
her. 

Having seen Catherine thus at rest, and having received 
many assurances from her gentle-hearted hostess that every 
care and attention should be given her, Major Clifton took 
leave, and returned to render himself up to his captors, who 
were just about to return to their ship. He went with them. 
And when they had arrived on beard the Albion, an agrees 
able surprise awaited him. A gentleman in the uniform of 
an American general stood upon the deck, attended by a flag 
of truce, and Major Clifton immediately recognized Colonel 
(now General) Conyers, who instantly advanced to meet him, 
aud shaking hands heartily, exclaimed— 

“You did not expect to find me here? I have come 
concerning the arrangement of a change of prisoners. Co 
.onel Lithgow of his Britannic Majesty’s ———— Regiment 


THE GOAL. 41) 


and taken prisoner by our people in the same engayrement in 
which you fell into the hands of the enemy, is now offered in 
exchange for yourself.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Captain ———, advancing towards them, 
‘and I am exceedingly happy to say that an exchange has 
heen effected, and to congratulate you on your restoration to 
iberty.” 

Major Clifton bowed deeply, and requested the use of a 
boat to leave the ship. 

“ Nay—yourself and General Conyers will stay and dine 
witd, us ?”? asked Captain ———-. 

But Major Clifton, thanking him for his invitation, and 
also for much kindness and attention received during his so- 
ieurn as a captive among them, declined remaining longer, 
ond repeated his request for a boat. 

“Oh, mine is here at your service. Jam going ashore 
wth you of course,” said General Conyers. 

“T beg your pardon, sir! the boat you came in has been 
eee by Captain Fairfax, who has gone ashore with it.” 

cab, true!” 

‘“ Captain Fairfax 2?” asked Archer Clifton. 

“¢ Yes, my friend, Captain Fairfax. Frank accompanied 
eve hither in search of yourself. Some news of vital import- 
ance he had to communicate, which he did not impart to me 
He could not wait for your return at all, so he went ashore 
iu search of you. [le wouid have fran you sooner if he 
b«d waited here, which proves the truth of the old proverb— 
‘ Most haste, least speed.’ ”’ 

“The boat is manned, sir,” said a lieutenant to Major 
Clifton. 

General Conyers and himself then took leave of the Brit- 
ish officers, entered the boat, and were rowed swiftly to the 
land. As soon as they had stepped upon the beach, and 
found themselves alone, Conyers grasped the hand or Clifton, 
and shaking it cordially, said— 

“So, you have won noble Catherine? Well, I congratu- 
tate you with a whole heart, though al have wou her trom 
my hopes.” 

«¢ Won her from your hopes?” 

“Ay, Archer, I loved her.’ 

“« Loved her ?”’ Ns 

¢ Yes, and love ker! 133 

“ Love her ?” 


449 THE GOAL. 


«Yes, and shall always love her, highly and purely though, 
as a saint loves an angel.” 

« You astonish me !” 

« And I shall astonish you more, perhaps. ‘Three several 
times in one year I wooed her, and three several times was 
my suit rejected by her.” 

‘‘T say you astound me! Your suit rejected by Catherine 
Yours? Can this be possible ” 

<¢ Possible as that I was nearly driven to despair by her 
rejection.” 

Major Clifton threw his hand to his brow and gazed at the 
speaker in amazement, while he compared the claims of Gene- 
ral Conyers with his own. General Conyers, with his haughty 
and powerful connection in town and cour.try ; his immense 
unincumbered estates ; his high military rank; and last, no. 
least, his eminently handsome person, accomplished mind, 
and graceful address;—General Cony ers, in every social, 
official, and personal dignity, highly superior. And himself, 
with his limited circle ; his debt-encumbered property ; his 
medium post in the army; and his very moderate share of 
personal attraction, and he exclaimed again— _ 

“ Catherine reject you ?” 

“‘ Three distinct times, most firmly.” 

‘‘ Why, upon what possible pretext could she have done 
so?” 

“ Ay, sure enough! Jpon what possible pretext?’ 
smiled General Conyers, ruefully. “ Upon the plea that she 
did not love me, save only ‘as a sister or a spirit might.? 
won her respect, esteem, friendship, all but her love! She 
was a frank, high-minded, pure hearted girl. She gave me 
the greatest proof of confidence she could possibly give, and 
at the same instant struck the only death-blow to dangerous 
hopes that she could possibly strike, she told me that she 
eould never be more than a faithful friend to me, for that she 
loved another.” 

Major Clifton started, and grasped the arm of his com- 
panion, but instantly recovering his self-control, he inquired, 





“ And who did she say was that other ?”’ 

“ Nay, she never breathed his name. She could not have 
aone that, She was trying to do me good when she informed 
me. [remember well her sweet and holy locks and words 
At first she fluzhed and paled, hesitating between generous 


THE GUAL. 443 


impulse and womanly reserve; and then as princ.ple rose 
above instinct, her face glowed with an expression such as | 
have seen in the pictures of St. Agnes ;—a warm, high, holy 
look, an inspired look, such as might well become the coun- 
tenance of the Virgin Martyr, and she said, speaking to her- 
self, ‘ There is no good reason why I should not reveal any 
secret of my heart, if the revelation can help any other soul 
to tranquillity and strength. Then to me—‘ Listen: You 
are not the only sorely disappointed one. Who, indeed, is 
joyous that is past childhood? I, too, have missed life’s 
crowning joy—the love of one I love. But what then? If 
we cannot have joy in this life of probation, there yet re- 
mains duty, and the peace its performance yields ; and friends, 
and the cheerfulness their society gives; and God, and the 
divine comfort His service brings.’ ”’ ; 

‘She said that? She said that ?’ groaned Clifton. 

“Yes. You seem strongly moved, Archer ?” 

“Tam! Tam! You do not know with how much reason! 
But go on! ‘Tell me more of her.” 

‘She never breathed the name of him she loved to my 
ear, yet I knew her whole secret. I had suspected it months 
before. Shall I tell you why ?” 

‘yes! Go on!” 

<‘Tt was at the Governor’s levee, where I was first intro- 
duced to her, and where you met after along absence; I was 
present at the casual meeting. I beheld the strong emotion 
that she could not conceal. Some hours after that I was 
near her, when unobserved by all except myself, and uncon- 
scious of my presence also, she chanced to witness the 
reconciliation between yourself and your chosen bride. I 
saw her face grow paler than death, and then the meek head 
bow in submission, and the meek hands fold as in prayer, 
and the meek voice murmur low and fervently, ‘Thank God?! 
Qh! God help me to say that sincerely.? I had been in- 
terested in her before; but I saw that, and I loved her from 
that hour, the sweet, the lovely, the Madonna-like maiden! 
I Joved her with an affection as free from passion as it was 
fiom selfishness, and as free from both as her own pure, 
saintly nature. And I offered her my heart and hand, as I said. 
Aud she zweetly and gratefully declined them, as 1 might 
have known before ;—unveiling the sanctuary of her price- 
less heart, to quiet me forever with the revelation of another 
master there ” 


qi1 THE GOAL. 


“Oh, God! Oh, God!” said Clifton. 

«What disturbs you so, Archer?” 

“Never mind. Never mind! And so, rejecting you as 
a Hone she won you as a friend ?” 

‘‘ Hor life and death and eternity. Yes.” om 

“That was a triumph! Rejected lovers seldom becom¢ 
friends! That was a rare triumph! Bat then Catherine is 
a rare woman.” 

“ Very rare!’ 

“ Truly nick-named ‘ Maria Theresa.’ ” 

‘Catherine! ‘Maria Theresa? By whom? By soma 
one, I suppose, who, recognizing her strong, practical mind,’ 
secs nothing better in her nature—sees not the pure heart 
and the lofty spirit of infinitely higher value than that.” 

‘‘ Heaven bless you, Conyers, for your good opinion of 
Catherine. But I wish to put a case to you, only an imagi- 
aary case, you observe, Conyers ?” 

“Yes! Well?” 

« Suppose you had ipsiie Cather ee? 

‘¢That is very imaginary! Well?’ 

«¢ And suppose that you had discovered her to be unwor- 
thy of your good opinion ?” 

‘Impossible! It could not have happened, because she 
could not have been unworthy.” 

‘¢ But suppose that her unworthiness had been n.ade mani- 
fest to you beyond all chance of mistake or doubt ?” 

‘“D—n it! Don’t let me be profane. It couldn’t have 
been made manifest to me,I tell you! Could any person or 
anything demonstrate to me that the sun darkened the earth, 
or the clouds dropped powdered charcoal, or that fig trees 
bore thorns? There are some things that can’t be proved, 
because they can’t exist!” 

Major Clifton thrust his hand in his bosom, and drew - 
thence a letter in a gray envelope, and handing it to General 
Conyers, asked— 

‘Do you know that hand-writing ?” 

‘Certainly, T do.” 

«¢ Whose is it?” 

“Mrs. Catherine Clifton’s.” 

« Are you sure ?” : 

“Pooh! Of course Tam! [ am familiar with the wrk 
ting !77 

“ Could you swear to it?” 


TIME GOAL. 44? 


«¢ You are very emphatic in this matter! Let me sce the 
letter again. Yes, I could swear to it.” 

«‘ And now will you do me the favor to read it?” 

General Conyers, with some hesitation, began to read, but 
before getting half through, the blood rushed to his brow, 
and crushing the letter in his hand, he hurled it beneath his 
feet, and setting his heel upon it, ground it into the earth. 

“© What do you think of it, now?” asked Clifton, bitterly. 

«¢ Think of it !—it is an infernal forgery! If any man had 
brought me that letter, and said that Catherine wrote it 
I should have treated it just as I have done now, to show mv 
contempt for the forgery ; and then I should have raised it 
with my sword’s point, and thrust it down his throat, to ex 
press my loathing of the forger or the accomplice.” 

«« And yet, just now you could have sworn to the hand 
writing.” 

“Death! Yes! And for which presumption I earnest] 
beg your pardon, Clifton !” 

«¢ And now you are quite as much convinced that she die 
not write it. How can you explain this?” 

“Why, simply thus—that the whole of Catherine’s noble 
life is a refutation of the slander contained in that letter. Sir' 
it is a d—d forgery! Look at it! See how easy the hand 
is imitated! Give me a pen and ink, and though I have not 
much talent for imitation, I will produce you a fac simile of 
Catherine’s hand-writing. I repeat, I beg your forgivenesr 
for saying that that was Catherine’s. I said so, because it 
strongly resembled hers, and I did not know the vile pur- 
port! Oh, I trust, Clifton, that you signally punished the 
conspirator who wrote it! I can well believe that you nei- 
ther eat, slept, said your prayers, went to church or into her 
presence, until you had pursued the forger, and punished him 
or her to the utmost extent of the law!” 

They had now arrived at Greenwood, and Major Clifton, 
without replying, conducted his companion into the house, 
and introduced him to the planter’s family. On inquiry con- 
cerning the state of Catherine, he learned that she still lay 
without any sign of life, except the faint beating of hev heart. 
Leaving General Conyers with his host, he went up into his 
wife’s chamber. He wished to be alone with her. There is 
something in a sound faith that always makes a strong im- 
pression. The deep, thorough earnestness of confidence in 
Catherine’s perfect integrity, exhibited by Conyers, hau 

28 


446 THE “GOL: 


shaken Clifton’s firm convictions of her guilt to their upreot 
ings, as the whirlwind shakes the oak. Ay, and fe waa 
shaken—literally shaken, terribly shaken, by strong passion, 
as he exclaimed to himself— 

«Oh, would to Heaven I could think as he does! Iam. 
no longer a youth, credulous of happiness, but if I could only 
thoroughly believe in Kate as he does—or once sce her inno- 
cence proycd, it would fill my heart with joy.”’ He entered 
the chambsr, and went up to her bedside. There was a pallor 
spread like death over her brow. ‘ But she was always so 
pale,” he said, in a voice tremulous with tenderness. So 
still she ]iy, so profound was her repose, that her breathing 
could not be seen or heard, until, alarmed, he stooped and 
listened, and perceived that her respiration was deep, soft, 
slow and regular. Her sleep was evidently necessary, health- 
ful and recuperative. He stood and gazed at her sculptured, 
marble-like face, as her head reposed upon the pillow. He 
had never seen that noble countenance in the deep repose of 
sleep before. No, and waking, it had always been disturbed 
by care, or grief, or anxiety, or bashfulness. Now the nob:e 
face was in perfect rest. The majesty of truth sat enthroned 
upon the fine, broad, open forehead, with its eyebrows archud 
far apart, and more elevated, because the eyelids were shut 
down, with their dark lashes lying long and still upon the 
pale cheeks. And the beauty of goodness lay folded in evei g 
curve of the lightly-closed and perfect lips. She looked a- 
quéen in repose— 


“ A Queen of noble Nature’s crowning,” 


whem it were disloyalty to suspect, and treason to accuse. 
Aste gazed, the earnest faith of Conyers came back wi.h 
tonfld power to his soul. He more than half abjured his 
evil convictions, and a flood of tenderness came over his 
beart. There was no one to see his weakness—not even 
her—the sleeper. He went and closed the door, and re- 
tarued and kneeled by her side. He took her hand, and 
bowed his head over it. From that tranee-sleep there was 
no fear, because there was no possibility of waking her yet 
fic kissed and pressed that hand with sorrowful passion— . 
murmuring—* For once—for this time, I will, J will believe 
you true, my own dear Catherine. My whole nature starves* 
it starves, and withers, and dies for a perfect revoncilia- 
tion, a perfect union with you. Oh, for once, let soul and 


THE GOAL. 44) 


heart be satisfied—let me steel my mind against ti 2 thought 
of evil, and fold you around with my love, ‘and pless you to 
this still denied and hungering, perishing heart.”’? And he 
raised her in his arms, and folded her to his bosom, pressing 
an ardent kiss upon her lips. That passionate kiss sent an 
electric shock through all her still life. A shuddering sigh 
shook her bosom; her lips parted in a light, rosy sinile ; 
color dawned upon her cheeks, and light beamed on her 
brow. Alarmed, and remembering the physician’s warning 
that a premature awakening might be fatal, he cautiously 
laid her down again, and anxiously watched her countenance. 
She did not awake; nor did the light depart from her brow: 
nor the color from her cheeks; nor the smile from her lips 
** How she loves me. Her soul as well as her person is mine 
How she loves me, even in sleep—even in this trance-sleep, 
with all her senses locked. How she loves me—my Kate! 
my own! my wife! How she loves me—yet no more than 
J love her. Witness this worn Fraaie of mine, that sorrow, 
like years, has aged! My own—” 

A light step upon the stairs, and a rap at the door, and 
he hastened to open it. It was the farmer’s little niece, 
Susannah, who came to say that Captain Fairfax was in the 
parlor, waiting to see Major Clifton. He turned back an 
instant, to arrange the coverlet, gave a last glance at the 
beloved face, and then followed the child down stairs. The 
staircase led directly down into the parlor, and as soon as he 
had reached it, he saw Frank Fairfax, who immediately 
hastened to meet him, and— 

“My dear Frank !” 

“¢ My dearest Clg*on !” 

Were the words of affectionate greeting interchanged, as 
they shook hands. 

«Well, and so you have been married these two years 
nearly, and I have never had the opportunity of congratu- 
Jating you till now! Well, better late than never, though it 
is always a mere form to wish a man joy who has an excess of 
it already! But, indeed, you have the jewel of the world! 
ff you had only waited two years longer, until I had some- 
what recovered the despair of my own awful bercayvement, I 
should haye tried to dispute the prize with you—not that 1 
was in love with noble Catherine—I never was but once in 
love, ard I never shall be again—but that I think her just 
the most precious woman in the world. Nor am I alone in 


443 THE GOAL. 


that opinion. I have been in her neighborhood, looking for 
her, before I came down here to find you, and there I found 
that she was deeply venerated by her people, and honored, 
sincerely honored, by all the proud, county aristocrats. And 
General Ross, the gallant General Ross, ‘second only ta 
Wellington himself. > we had to see Admiral Cockburu 
about this exchange of prisoners, and met General Ross in 
his company—lI wish you had heard the brave and generous 
Ross speak of your wife. As soon as he knew what we had 
come for, and recognized your name and hers, he took Ad- 
miral Cockburn aside, and talked with him in the most em- 
phatic manner, seeming to insist upon something—(and be it 
known that General Ross exercises a considerable influence 
over Cockburn, and has even restrained him from greater 
excesses in Washington than were committed there, obliging 
him to spare private dwellings, etc.)—and then they came 
back to where we stood, and the arrangement was effected. 
And to General Ross’s admiration of Catherine’s character, 
and to his generosity, I attribute the ease with which the 
business was completed. ‘Sir,’ he said, at parting, ‘had 
your army at Bladensburg been comnosed of men with spirits 
equal to that of this heroic woman, your city of Washington 
had not been taken.? But, where is noble Catherine, now 2?” 

“In a deep sleep, or rather a trance-sleep, superinduced 
by the excessive toil and fatigue she has lately gone 
through—” 

‘¢¢ Like a warrior taking Lis rest! ” 

“ No—I wish you would not apply that line, great as it is. 
to her. She is not heroic, which is masculine—my Kate— 
she is strong only through her affections, and a very child in 
timidity at other times. But, my dear Frank, glad as I am 
to see you, I wish to know—you have not told me the ¢ busi 
ness of vital importance,’ which Conyers says, made you his 
companion in secking me.” 

The face of Captain Fairfax suddenly clouded over; he 
put his hand in his bosom, and then hesitating, said— 

‘You have seen in the papers the obituary notice of a dear 
friend ?” 

“No! Whois it? Ihave no very dear friend, out of 
tliis house, now—whom do you mean ?” 

“Mrs. Georgia Clifton is no more.” 

Major Clifton started back, and gazed at the speaker with 
an expression of deep concern, exclaiming— 





THE GOAL 449 


“No! Impossible! How could that be? A woman in 
such fine health !” 

“ Death is always possible; at all times, and to all pers 
sons.” 

«‘ When, and where, and under what circumstances, did 
she die? I am very sorry.” 

«She died a week since, at her house, in Richmond.” 

“Tam very sorry. The cause of her death ?” 

*“‘ One ef those virulent summer fevers prevalent in the city 
just at this season. Her physicians think that hers was fa- 
tally ageravated by the life of excitement she had led, and by 
the friction of something that preyed upon her mind.” 

Frank paused, and Major Clifton kept his eyes fixed with 
interest upon his countenance. Frank sighed, and resumed— 

“¢ A few days before her death, she sent for me. I went, 
and found her laboring under great mental distress. She 
seemed half disposed to make meaconfidant ; butafter much 
painful hesitation, she reserved her secret, whatever it may 
have been, and drew from-beneath her pillow this letter, 
which she gave me—exacting an oath, that after her death, and 
not before—I would hand it to yow with the seal unbroken 
She said that the whole future happiness of yourself and your 
wife, was concerned in your receiving it. And then, with 
many sighs and groans—for her eyes seemed too dry for 
tears—she let me depart. I never saw her again. A few 
days after that, I heard she was dead.” 

“The letter ?”’ 

‘“‘ Here it is. You seem very much agitated, Clifton !” 

* With reason! Give it me!” 

And receiving the letter, Major Clifton hastened to tha 
opposite end of the room and began to read it. It was the 
confession of a guilty and dying woman. She wrote, that on 
the borders of eternity there was no false seeming, and no 
false shame—that all human feelings were lost in remorse, in 
terror, and in awe. Then she confessed her mad and guilty 
passion for himself, and all the crimes into which it had 
tempted her; the slanders that had separated him and his 
cousin Carolyn—the forged letter that had brought such 
bitter sorrow to himself and Catherine. All was confessed 
and deplored. Finally ske supplicated his forgiveness, as he 
hoped to be forgiven of God. 

The subtle self-love of a man can pardon much in a woman 
whose motive of a3tion isa strong passion for himself. Great 


{59 THE GOAN. : 


res ucr wickedness had been—great as the suffering it hac 
carnsed him, he bore no malice to the dead Georgia. Heeven | 
afrer a time resolved to cover her sin from all eyes--to bury 
it m the grave with her. But merciful as he was in judging 
Georgia-—he was stern enough in condemning himself for se 
rendily believing his innocent wife to be guilty. And he di: 
viced his broken exclamations between severe self-upbraid. 
ings, and rejoicings at her full acquittal—F rank watching him 
Wirh curiosity and strong interest 

‘Qh! fool! fool! fool !” 

-‘ What is it, Clifton? Who’s a fool 2?’ 

‘Oh! fool! thrice sodden fool that Pye been! Thank 
\\waven. Oh! thank Heaven !” | 

‘Thank Heaven that he’s a thrice sodden fool! That’s 
new cause for thanksgiving! What’s it all about, Archer? 

Oh! folly! blindness! madness! Heaven be praised 
On Heaven be praised !” 

** Heaven be praised for folly, blindness, and madness 
Weu Heaven be praised for all things! But what the deuce 
is it, Clifton ”’ 

“Mole! mole! Oh, God, how grateful—how rejoiced ] 
am !” 

“Oh, Lord, how grateful and rejoiced he is, that he’s a 
mole! Clifton!—What the mischief! Don’t keep on striding 
about, talking to yourself, with your hand clapped to yom 
forehead, like a walking gentleman in a melo-drama, which 
you always detested ! ‘Besides, you know there is no legiti- 
mate dramatie reason for a married hero to stride about and 
obstr eperate, excepting only jealousy, and you’re not jealous ? 
Come! cease starting and vociferating, and tell me the 
cause—‘ the CAUSE, my soul! ” 

“ Vrank! [ve been a fool !” 

«“ That’s no news.” 

«And a brute !” 

«¢ Who doesr’t know that ?” 

« And a cursed villain.” 

«“ Nay, ‘1 wouldn’t hear your enemy say that.’ ” 

«Oh! Frank, Frank, what shall I do?’ 

«‘T am sure I don’t know, unless you tell me the premises 
of action.” 

“TJ cannot, Frank! Dear Frank, I cannot. The memory 
of the dead should be sacred; so should the differences 
of —— ~ I cannot tell you. Frank.” 


THE GOAL 451 


«© Hist! Here’s the doctor.” 
Old Doctor Shaw at this moment passed through the par- 
w, on his way to visit his patient. 

Major Clifton accompanied him up stairs to her chamber. 

When they reached her bed-chamber, he noticed that the 
mile had departed from her lips, and the color from her 
cheeks. The old physician put on his spectacles, and looked 
scrutivizingly at her face and hands, laid kis hand upon her 
forehead and bosom, to get the temperature, felt her pulse, 
felt her hands- and feet, and finally pronounced her to be 
doing very well. 

“¢ May she not be wakened uy, sir ?”’ asked Clifton, almost 
selfish in his impatience for a reconciliation. 

‘¢ By no means. She must be let alone-—nature is her 
best physician, and the sleep she prescribey, her best medi- 
cine.’ 

“But, sir, | have something of vital importance to com- 
municate to her!” persisted Clifton. 

sé Sir, it may be of vital importance to you, but it would 
be of fatal importance to her, should you rouse her to com- 
municate it, whatever it is.’ 

Major Clifton was obliged to restrain his eagerness. The 
physician departed, leaving only one simple direction :—that 
as soon as she awoke she should be putin a warm buth. 

Archer Clifton was then summoned down stairs to join the 
family at supper. There he found a lively, witty, eccentric 
personage, who was introduced to him as “ Our neighbor, 
Mr. Perry.” And when the evening was over, this gentle- 
man took an opportunity of drawing the officers aside, and 
confidentially informing them that the ladies of Greenwood 
were very much crowded with the company of some relations 
that were staying with them just then, and that although they 
would certainly press their guests to remain all night, the 
latter could not do so without putting their kind hostess te 
much inconvenience ; he concluded by offering, and heartily 
pressing upon the gentlemen the accommodations of his own 
house. Thanking Mr. Perry for his kindness, they accepted 
his proffered hospitality, and prepared to accompany him home 

Major Clifton went up stairs, intending only to press a 
parting kiss upon the lips of his now doubly beloved Cathe- 
rine, but when he reached her chamber, he seemed to forget 
every thing but her, and sat down by her bedside, watching 
the sweet, pale, majestic countenance in its death-like repose. 


459 THE GOAT. 


Ay! gaze on, Archer Clifton, tor when you have onve 
turned your eyes away, sharp heart-pangs must be yours ere 
vou look vpon that sculptured face again ! 

He remained until summoned by Mr. Perry—then pressing 
a fond kiss upon the calmed lips, he departed with a tacit 
prouusa to be at her side early in the morning. 

(n the r.orning ! 


CONCLUSION 443 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
CONCLUSION. 


So trial after trial past, 

Wilt thou fall at the very last, 

Breathless, half in trance, 

With the thrill of a great deliverance, 

Into our arms forever more; 

And thou shalt know these arms once curied 
About thee—what we knew before— 

How love isthe only good in the world. 
Henceforth be loved as heart can love, 

Or brain devise, or hand approve.—BrownIna. 


THe e afidential communication made by Mr. Perry, was 
probably a ruse on the part of that eccentric gentleman, for 
the purpose of obtaining the assistance of the officers in 
‘making a night of it”? over at his house. Certainly, ou 
reaching the home of their host, they found company await- 
ing their arrival, and they passed the evening in the jolly 
festivity of country hospitality. A luxurious supper was 
served late at night, from which they did not separate until 
the “small hours.” Thus many of the guests overslept 
themselves the next morning, which delayed the family break- 
fast several hours. Therefore it was after ten o’clock, before 
Major Clifton, very much against the will of his odd enter- 
tainer, bid him farewell, and set out to return te Greenwood. 
Jt was eleven o’clock when he reached the farm-house. The 
ladies were all in their sitting-room, engaged in their various 
jomestic occupations of netting, sewing, knitting, etc., 
when he entered, and gave them the morning salutation 
And then— 

‘¢ How is Mrs. Clifton this morning, ladies? Can 1 see 
her immediately ?”’ 

«¢ Mrs. Clifton, sir!” said the eldest lady, looking up in 
surprise. ‘ Mrs. Clifton is gone sir, Did you not know it” 


454 CONCLUSION. 


‘(Gone ?” repeated Archer Clifton, incredulously. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“‘ Gone!” he reiterated, in amazement. 

“Yes, sir. We certainly thought that you were aware 
of her departure.” 

“‘ Most certainly not! Gone! When? how? excuse me, 
madam, but where has she gone ?” 

“We do not know, sir, indeed, since you cannot tell us. 
We thought that she had gone to join you, at Mr. Perry’s 
We were very sorry, but—” 

‘“< How long since she left? How did she go? Pardon mg 
vehemence, dear madam.” 

“We partake of your anxiety, sir. Mrs. Clifton left us 
about four hours since, at seven o’clock, immediately after 
breakfast. She went away on the horse that was brought 
here yesterday as her own. She left us very much against 
our arguments and persuasions. We would gladly have de- 
tained her.” | 

‘“Gone! Good Heavens, was she able to go.” 

‘«¢ No, sir, assuredly she was not.” 

Archer Clifton sank into a chair, exclaiming— 

‘Pray, tell me, dear madam, the circumstances of this 
departure, and all that occurred from the time I left, until 
she went away.” 

“ Why, sir, after you left, she continued in the same deep 
sleep until nearly nine o’clock, when she began to show 
symptoms of awakening. I sent out and ordered the hot 
bath to be prepared, and sat down to watch her. As she 
drew near to consciousness, her face lost that look of pro- 
found repose, which had previously marked it, and began to 
assuine an expression of suffering. Her brows folded, and 
her lips sprang apart and quivered, as with a spasm of sharp 
pain, and her eyes flared open suddenly, and she was awake. 
I asked her how she felt, but she shook her head, and closed 
her eyes again, and shut her teeth tightly, !‘ke one trying to 
bear silently some sharp, inward pain. The bath was then 
prepared by the bedside, and we began to get her ready for 
it; but on the slightest attempt to move her, she groaned 
8° deeply, that we scarcely dared to lift her for some minutes. 
I knew then how it was;—that her muscles were stiff and 
painful, from the severe exertion of such a long equestrian 
journey. And I knew also that the hot bath would relieve 
her; and the docta ’s directions had been peremptory, 80 we 


CONCLUSION. | 45§ 


tried again, and placed her in the bath. And very soon ths 
hot water seemed to alleviate her sufferings. And when we 
put her comfortably to bed again, sbe thanked us very 
sweetly. [asked her how she found herself. She answered, 
‘ Better’—adding, that she thought, by her hard exercise, 
she had hurt some part of her chest or side, which had given 
her great pain, but which was now partially relieved.” 

‘‘ |)id she seem very much better? Was her voice strong 
in speaking ?” 

“No, it was very weak and faint, and frequently broken, 
as by some inward pain, as I said.” 

Go on, dear lady.” 

_ We brought her a cup of tea and a plate of toast, of 
both cf which she partook slightly. It was then after nine 
o’clock, and she begged that she might not disturb us—that 
we would retire to bed—and said that she was better, and 
would try to sleep again. She then composed herself to rest, 
and the girls all left the room. I remained watching until 
U thought she slept, and then I lay down to rest on the other 
bed in the same room. I think she passed a good night, for 
[ could not divest myself of uneasiness upon her account, and 

0] could not get to sieep until after midnight, and during 
ail that tme 1 never heard her move, or sigh. After I did 
get to sleep, however, I slept very soundly, till near six 
o’clock. And when I awoke, what was my surprise, to see 
her up and dressed, as for a journey. She looked very pale 
and ill and sorrowful, and in fastening her habit, she fre- 
quently stopped and leaned against the bed-post for support 
L arose quickly and questioned her wishes, and begged her 
to lie down again. But she only waved her hand against 
me, with a mute, imploring gesture. I expostulated witb 
her, but arguments and persuasions were alike in vain—she 
only answered, ’I wust go.’” 

“Oh, Heaven! Where, where did she wish to go?” 
«¢ We do not know. She was not communicative, and w 

did not like to question her.” 

‘‘orgive me, dear madam. Indeed I fear my questione 
ings must appear almost rude, but my great anxiety must be 
my excuse.” 

‘Your anxiety is very natural, sir, and we share it.” 

‘¢ Did she know that I was in the neighborhood? Did any 
oné inform ner !” 

6 We cannot tell whatk>+r she knew of your presence here. 





456 CONCLUSION. 


We did not tell her, for, as 1 said, she made no inquiries, 
and there was a reserve about her despair that shut itself in 
from all interference. Indeed it would be scarcely doing 
justice to her lonk of deep sorrow, to say that she was the 
most hopeless looking human being I ever saw in my life 
She seeméd like one who had seen her last hope go down.” 

“ Merciful God !” 

‘’We used every method, except force, to prevent her 
leaving us, though we were impressed with the idea that she 
was going to you. And after her departure, in consulting 
together, we were half sorry that we had not essayed gentle 
coercion, for we all suspected that the lady’s reason was 
clouded.” 

«‘ Great God! I have driven her to madness—perhaps to 
death !” thought Archer Clifton, but then he exerted self- 
control enough to conceal the depths and extent of his 
anxiety, and asked “* What road did she take ?” 

‘“‘The North-west road, sir, which branches off towards 
Mr. Perry’s a quarter of a mile up, which was one of our 
reasons for supposing that she had gone to join you.” 

Taking a hasty leave of the family, Major Clifton remounted 
his horse, and rode furiously up the road, meeting General 
Conyers and Frank, who had lagged behind on their return 
home. Stopping them, he communicated what had happened, 
but concealed his worst fears, and merely said that he pre- 
sumed that Catherine had left for her Virginia home, in igno- 
rance of his liberation, and his presence in the neighborhood, 
and that he wished, if possible, to overtake her, before she 
had proceeded far upon her road. Frank immediately turned 
rein to accompany him, while General Conyers, with many 
expressions of regret and concern, took leave of them, to 
return to Greenwood, and explain their absence. 

The road lay for many miles through a dense forest, and 
they galloped onward for hours without meeting a single 
traveler or seeing a solitary house. Near the outskiris of 
the forest they came upon a party of stragglers, whom they 
judged to be deserters from the British army. But these 
men, when questioned, gave cautious and unsatisfactory an- 
swers—sulkily insisting that no lady riding alone had passed 
that way. They next inquired of some field laborers, who 
were stacking grain a little farther on. They replied that a 
iady in a dark riding-dress, riding on a bay horse, had 


CONCLUSION. 457 


boy, mounted on a white mare, attendea ner. Perhaps this 
was Catherine, and her attendant scme chance passenger. 
They questioned more particularly. and the description given 
answered to her personal appearance. They asked what road 
she had taken, and being told “ straight ahead,” they set off 
in a gallop. <A few miles further on they again inquired, 
.and were told that such a lady, attended by a boy, had passed 
abcut an hour before. Full of hope, they put spurs to their 
horse3 and hurried on, congratulating themselves that they 
were gaining on her so fast. 

At length they reachcd a school-house in the woods, 
where, tied to a fence, they saw the bay horse, with a side- 
saddle, and a white pony, with a boy’s saddle. Dismounting 
quickly, Captain Fairfax hastencd to the school-room door, 
and inquired of the master to whom the animal belonged ? 

“To Mrs. Jones, who has just brought her son to school,” 
answered the teacher, full of surprise at the question. 

Axa there, indeed, sat “ Mrs. Jones” and young Hopeful, 
looking as if they considered such investigation into their 
r*operty very impertinent, to say the least. 

Disappointed, Frank returned to Major Clifton with this 
explanation, and they looked at each other m chagrin and 
perplexity—Major Clifton with great difhculty maintaining 
his self-possession, and concealing the dreadful forebodings 
that overshadowed his mind. They were now thirty miles 
from Greenwood, and the sun was getting low. 

“IT do not see anything better to do, Archer, than to 
keep on till we reach Washington City. No doubt you wil! 
see her there, if you do not overtake ber before.” 

Again putting whip to their horses, they galloped on, 

assing the great belt of forest, and entering upon the bare 
bisade, lying south of the city. It was late in the night 
when they descended the road leading to the Anacostic 
bridge. They found that the bridge had been destroyed, 
and they experienced much difficulty and dclay before find- 
ing a boat to take them across. They entered the ruined 
and blackened city a little aiter midnight. At that hour 
rittle opportunity of search was afforded, and that little was 
fruitless. They had much trouble in finding a night’s 
lodging in the desolate city, but at length obtained indiffer- 
ent shelter, and retired, with the determination to pursue 
their investigations in the morning. At an early hour they 
arsse, and went out, making inquiries in every direction, but 


458 CONCLUSION. 


in vain. No one had seen or heard of the missing lady 
though many cheerfully suggested that she had fallen intc 
the hands of the British soldiery, who were on their retreat 
through the low counties. Strongly impressed with the idea - 
hat she must be in or near Washington, they were unwilling 
to abandon their search, but remained in the city all day, and 
through the next night, before resigning all hope of finding 
her there. KHven upon the second morning, Major Clifton 
and Captain Fairfax were divided in their opinion as to 
whether they had better go back to St. Mary’s, or go on 
to R————. Major Clifton, full of the darkest presenti- 
ments, was disposed to turn back. Captain Fairfax, on the 
contrary, full of hope and confidence, urged his friend to 
push forward. While they were debating, General Conyers 
rode up and joined them. He said he had but that morning 
reached the city, and had been an hour in search of them, 
In answer to their anxious questions, General Conyers in- 
formed them that up to late the night before, no news had 
been heard of Mrs. Clifton—that she evidently was not in the 
neighborhood he had just left. He seemed grieved and 
alarmed to find that they had not yet overtaken Catherine, 
but expressed a strong conviction that she must be on her 
way home. He advised them to pursue the journey, and 
regretting that peremptory duty called him to an interview 
with the Secretary of War, and prevented his bearing them 
company, took leave, and rode away—turning back once to 
beg that as soon as they had found Catherine, tley would - 
write to him at Washington, and let him know. Major Clif- 
ton and Frank precured fresh horses, and leaving their own, 
set forward on their anxious journey. 

The gloomiest forebodings darkened the mind of Archer 
Clifton. There was one scene ever present to his mental 
vision—where, at the end of her dreadful journey, fainting 
‘rom incredible exertion, Catherine had fallen into his arms, . 
und he had received her with a harsh-and stern rebuke for 
making a scene :—one look and tone of hers, that filled his 
soul with remorse and terror prophetic of doom—her last de- 
spairing gaze—her last despairing tones, before she sank 
into insensibility. How plaintively they echoed through his 
heart «“ Patience, patience, patience Indeed I will 
not trouble you, love I will go away——-Maybe God 
will let me die.” Would he ever forget those words, that 
voice, that gaze of unutterable but meek despair! 














CONCLUSION. 45% 


«I have broken her heart. J have killed her. 1 have 
killed her. Woman’s nature could not live through what 1 
have driven er through! Poor, pocr girl!—-so bitterly 
slandered !—so cruelly tortured! Persecuted unto death— 
or worse—unto madness! And where is she now? Per- 
kaps the waves of the Patuxent roll over her cold bosom— 
calmed at last; or perhaps she lives—a mad and _ houseless 
wanderer; but I will not believe this, I will not believe it! 
She may be dead; she must be broken-hearted but not mad! 
All-Merciful God!—not mad! She may be dead—and that 
would be just, for it would secure her happiness and my own 
retribution, in the only way that both could ve secured. 
perhaps.” | 

Not a hint of this prophetic despair was breathed to Fair- 
fax. Clifton’s indomitable pride, regnant even over this 
anxiety, forbade the communication of his remorse and alarm, 
and the great reason he had for both. Yet Frank observed 
and tried to cheer his friend’s deep gloom. 

_ « Come, rouse yourself, Archer, we are nearing L— —, 
and shall be at White Cliffs by night-fall, and who but Mrs. 
Clifton will meet us at the door, with her gentle smile and 
gentle welcome, and then shall we not all spend a jolly even- 
ing, laughing over our cups of tea at the famous wild-goose 
chase we have had?” Hut little effect had Frank’s words on 
his drooping fellow traveler. Only as they drew near White 
Cliffs his depression rose into feverish excitement. Arrived 
at L——--, they inquired if Mrs. Clifton had passed through 
there, and were informed that she had aot. It was long 
after night-fall that they reached White Cliffs. Here the 
terrified house servants, roused up from their sleep, answered 
‘to all inquiries upon the st bject, that they had not seen or 
heard from their mistress sinee she left to go to Washington. 
Henny pushed foremost of all to inquire about her * dear 
mist’ess and brother Jack.” But with a gesture of despera- 
tion, Major Clifton sent her off unsatisfied, and turned an 
agonized look upon Frank. Fairfax was almost discouraged, 
but, nevertheless, he answered that silent appeal hopefully, 
saying, “Oh! doubtless she will be home to-morrow, or the 
next day, at farthest. We ought to have remembered that 
zhe had not recovered from her fatigue, and that she would 
probably take her own time in returning. We have outridden 
her, evidently.” 

Major Clifton rejcined by a groan. He ordered refresh- 


469 CONCLUSION. 


ments for his guest, and soon after attended him to his room, 
and retired to his own, not to rest, but to walk about dis- 
tractedly, and then he burst into Catherine’s vacant chamber, 
and threw himself down upon her empty bed, in the very 
anguish of bereavement. His long residence in the lowlands 
of the Chesapeake, during the hot summer months, had pre- 
Cisposed him to illness. His long journey, under the burning 
cun of August by day, and heavy dews of August by night, 
fatigue and anxiety, loss of food and sleep, all conspired tc 
bring on the pernicious fever, and before morning Arvher 
Clitton was tossing and raving in high delirium. Summoned 
by the alarmed servants, Captain Fairfax was early at his 
bedside, and seeing his condition, dispatched a messenger 
for the family physician. For many days, his state alternatee 
between delirium and stupor, and his life tottered upon the 
edge of the grave. And in his delirium all his raving was 
of Catherine—still Catherine—now adjuring her as _ hig 
Nemesis—now wooing her by the most tender epithets of af 

*ection—calling her his ** poor wounded dove,” his “ broken 

hearted child,” etc. Often he repeated plaintively her las» 
sorrowful, hopeless words. 

At length the crisis of the disease came. The delirium 
arose to frenzy. His spirit, as well as his flesh, seemed to 
be passing through the very fires of purgatory. He raved 
incessantly—now of Carolyn, now of Georgia, then of his 
mother, and always of Catherine—sometimes calling down 
the bitterest imprecations upon his own head, souetines 
severely reproaching Georgia, sometimes pleading his cause 
with his mother, and always breaking off to svothe and coax 
Catherine, as if she were circled in his arm. 

At length the frenzy fairly exhausted itself, and he sank: 
tnto a comatose state, to dream of Catherine, to see visions 
of Catherine, to feel her gentle presence, and healing minis 
trations all about him. ‘Then came insensibility, which lasted 
ne did not know how long, for all sense of time and place 
aud existence itself was blotted out. 

And at last he awoke—the burning fever had gone out 
from his blood, and a delicious coolness ran through all his 
ve'ns-—the terrible nervous excitement had subsided, and a 
»uxurious calm Jay upon mind and body, until memory came 
# disturb it, perbaps to torture it. He was experiencing the 
delightful sensations of restoration and convalescence, and 
isis vlivsical state aloue would have been sufficient cause for 


CONCLUSION. fol 


happiness, but for one aching, aching epot, ne sharp point 
of agony us it were in his heart’s core. And when tle cry 
in his bosom found its corresponding expression, the word 
was * Catherine '” ‘ Catherine!” 

His eyes had opened on his darkened chamber, whore, 
upon the hearth, glimmered a feeble taper, that scarcely sent 
its weak rays beyond the edges of the hearth. He knew it 
must be near day, for the low, melodious detonating sounds 
of early morning were echoing through the mountains. Tho 
chamber seemed deserted—not if Catherine had been living 
would his sick bed have been so abandoned, he thought. He 
turned and groaned from the depths of his bosom—* Oh, 
Catherine! Catherine.” His room was very dusky—he 
sould not see the presence by his couch—but now gentler 
than “ tired eyelids upon tired eyes” fell a soft hand upon 
bis brow. 

Surely there was but one touch like that in the world! 

A new born, feeble hope was trembling at his heart, a 
hope that he feared to disturb lest it should die in disap- 
pointment; that he dared scarcely submit to the test of cer- 
tainty, lest that certainty should bring not joy but despair 
At last, trembling with doubt, he murmured, “ Am I dream 
ing, or, dear Kate, are you here 2?” 

“‘T am here,” she answered softly. 

“‘ Darling, are you well ?” 

“‘ Very well—but you are not well enough to talk yet,” 
said Kate, gently. 

«¢ Dear Kate—how long have you been home ?”’ 

‘Since the day you were taken ill,” replicd Kate, at the 
same time encircling his shoulders with one arm, and raising 
him, while with the other hand she placod a glass to his lips 

Whether the medicine were a potent. sedative, or whether 
her gentler touch had a soothing effect, or whether both these 
influences acted upon him, I cannot tell ; but certainly the 
nervous excitement, just raised by the discovery of her pre- 
sence, subsided into perfect calmness, and he lay with his 
hand folded in Catherine’s, until he fell asleep. 

When he awoke again it was sunrise, and his room looked 
eneerful, and the family physician and Frank Fairfax stood 
at his bedside, with their congratulations on his convale- 
scence. And while they staid, his eyes were roving rest- 
lessly around the room, in search of some one else. 

And whew they went away, Catherine entered, bringing 

2 


462 CONCLUSION 


cold water, and came and sponged his head and hands. And 
then she wert out. and returned with his iight breakfast. 
She sat upon she bed, supporting his head and sb<ulders 
vpon her bes371 while he ate. At last— 

‘“ Take it a!) away, dearest Kate,” he said, “ and sit whera 
I can see you lt is you who are my restorative.” 

When ‘bz service was removed, and his pillows were ar- 
ranged, av.d fe was comfortably laid back upon them again, 
he saic— - 

“ Dearert Kate, do you know that I know at last, how 
deeply you have been injured ?” 

Sne stooped down to him saying, softly— 

‘‘ Please do not try to talk to-day. Yield to the inclina- 
tion you have for sleep. It is so needful to you, and ‘will 
prove so restorative. And to-morrow, when you are better, 
we can converse,” 

He smiled upon her, and laid his hand in hers, .ana while 
she clasped it, fell asleep. 

With a strong constitution like that of Archer Clifton, the 
convalescence is rapid. And Catherine’s presence, as he 
said, was his true restorative. 

The fourth morning from this, he was very much bettw, 
and reclined comfortably upon his couch watching Catherine, 
who moved quietly about the room setting things in order. 
He was much wasted by illness, and his face looked stil] 
more sallow and haggard for the dark, dishevelled hair and 
whiskers that encircled it; but his countenance wore an ex- 
pression of subdued joy as he lay and watched Kate. At 
last— 

«¢ Are you so much afraid that Henny will disturb me by 
rattling a cup and saucer, or jingling a teaspoon, that you 
must do all yourself? My devoted Kate, I am not so ill. 

Yome and sit upon the lounge by me, and let me talk to 
you,” he said, holding out his arms. 

She went and sat upon the side of the couch, and he en- 
eircled her with his arm, while he said— 

“ My dear Kate, do you know that I thought I had los¢ 
you ?” | 

She raised her eyes in gentle wonder. 

« Yes, I thought your great and undeserved misfortunes 
had killed or maddened you.” 

‘It was the approach of your illness that gave you suck 
dreadful thoughts,” said Catherine, gently. 


CONCLUSION. 463 


“* Not entirely, dear Kate. It was your last words when 
you fainted on my bosom—do you remember them ?’” 

‘¢ No-—I remember nothing very distinctly fron: the mo- 
ncnt I threw myself in among the soldiery, and saw the 
bayonets glittering around me, until I awoke and fo.ind iny 
self in the farmer’s house.” 

“Ah! don’t you remember that in answer to my harsh 
guestion—harsh Kate, because I was stil! in blindness—you 
answered— Patience, patience, patience: indeed I will not 
trouble you, love—I will go away; maybe God will let mo 
die.’ ” 

“ Pid I really use those words ?” 

* Yes, and with such a look of hopeless resignation! I 
thought that I had lost you, Kate. I thought that you were 
dead or mad, or at least had been driven from me, for you 
said so earnestly, ‘I will go away? ”’. 

“Did I say that? I donot remember. But I suppose [ 
meant that I would go home. And, oh! do you think—” 

«“ Think what, dear Kate 2” 

She paused, and her face flushed. She had been about to 
say, * Do you think that anything but your own will would 
have driven me from you?’ But her old shyness returned 
upon her stronger than ever. 

He understood her, and told her so by as tightening 
pressure of his arm. 

«“ And, dear Kate, we could hear of you A Sal You 
were long in returning, Catherine.” 

“Yes, when I started I was still very unequal to the re- 
tura journey, I had weakened myself, and was obliged to ride 
slowly. And then I lost my way coming back—that was 
how you missed me.” 

“And does my Kate know that I know now how deeply 
she has been wronged, and how nobly she has borne those 
wrongs—returning always good forevil. And can she guess 
the remorse and sorrow of heart that hurried on this fit of ill- 
ness ?” Then snddenly overcome with emotion, he exclained : 
Ob, my God, Catherine! can you imagine how I suffered ?” 

“y J8, Yes, indeed I-know it all! T learned all—all—is 
the raving of your delirium. Others thought it mere raving 
but I knew.” | 

“ And do you know who forged that fatal letter, Kate” 

OY Sa.” 

“ Who was it, then ”” 


464 CONCLUSION. 


“Yuu said, Mrs. Georgia.” 

“Yes. It was strange you never suspected that, Rute ” 

‘JT did suspect it.” 

“ You did suspect it!” exclaimed Archer Clifton, in aur 
prise. 

eh as 

« And you never breathed that suspicion !” 

No, because I had no certain evidence against her, It 
would have been wrong to have acted upon a mere suspicion.” 

“ Just and upright in all things !” 

“TI only believed God’s promises. I left my cause to 
Ieayen.” 

‘* And Heaven has vindicated you, my Kate! You have 
seen my svfferings since discovering how unjustly you had 
been condemned ; but, oh, Kate, I suffered also when I madly 
believed you guilty.” 

‘¢J know you did. I do know you did. It was that that 
gave point to my own sorrow.” 

« When I cast you into the fire, while you were tortured, 
I was scathed! I loved you too perfectly not to suffer with 
you. You were too really a portion of myself, for me not to 
suffer through you. I am thinking of that Archbishop, 
Kate—whose name I have forgotten—” 

« Cranmer ?? 

“Yes, Cranmer! See how our very unspoken thoughts 
rush together, dear wife. Yes, Kate, I was thinking of Cran. 
mer, who thrust his offending hand into the flames, and held 
it there, until it burned to cinders, and dropped off. Oh, my 
Kate! was it his hand alone that suffered, or did not his 
whole body agonize with it? And so, my Catherine, when 
believing you unworthy, I thrust you into the fire, did I not 
suffer through you inall my nature? I did! I did, Cathe- 
rine! Lift up the hair from my temples, and tell me what 
you see ?” 

Kate lifted the clustering dark curls, and answered— 

sé A few white hairs.” 

“ The tears I made you shed, bleached them, Kate.” . 

She did not reply, except by meeting his gaze with a look 
of earnest affection. 

He resumed-— 

«“ Yes—even then, when insanely I believed it possible for 
you to be guilty—even then—every look of anguish on your 
brow wrung my bosom—every tear you dropped, fell hot upon 


CONCLUSION. 465 


my heart. Stoop down. J.et me tell you one little simple 
thing—I sometimes saw—oh, I used to watch you so closely, 
because I could not help it, Kate ;—when I was harsh and 
stern, I sometimes saw your chin quiver-—tixe a grieved 
child’s—and, Kate, my whole soul would be overflowed with 
tenderness, which, to conceal, I had to start up and leave the 
room, with every appearance of anger that I could falsely 
assume.’ 

iXate wept—her tears fell fast upon his hand, that she had 
elasped between her own. 

«¢ And, oh, Catherine, to think that all this trouble I have 
suffered, and have inflicted upon you, should have been so 
unnecessary !”” 

Catherine slid from the edge of the couch down upon her 
knees beside it, and her countenance grew earnest, and in- 
spired with faith and love, as she clasped her hands, and 
said— 

“Oh, no! it was nof unnecessary. God suffered it to be, 
and it was well—very well! ‘ All things work together for 
good, to them that love the Lord.’ And every pang that 
has ploughed our hearts in the past, will make tbem fruitful 
of good in the future. One fruit is, that the suffering of the 
last two years has drawn our hearts together as nething else 
could have done. Because—”’ 

Again in the full tide of her earnest thoughts. the old 
bashfulness flushed her cheek, and silenced her tongue. She 
wished to say, ‘¢ Because I think you would never have known 
me so well, or held me so dear, if you had not proved me by 
fiery trial.” 

And again his heart rightly interpreted her silence, and he 
answered her unuttered thought by saying— ‘ 

“Yes, you are right, my own dear blessing! You are 
right, for I never should have known your full value but for 
the trial yon have passed through. Yet not now only, but 
always have [ loved you, dear wife. I denied it to myself— 
I denied it to others—but there it was, the perfect, vita] 
Iove, as sure as fate. When I first saw you, Kate, I met in 
yeur face, your voice, your manner,—yes, in every look and 
ton2 and gesture, in your whole unity—something that I had 
vainly sought through life—something homogenial to my nas 
sure—something perfectly satisfying. You seemed, dear 
Kate, not so much a separate existence as the completion of 
my own. What did you say, Kate? Your voice, too, i 


465 CONCLUSION. 


‘ever soft, gentle and low,’—but speak again dearest. It is 
something that my heart listens to hear.” 

“1 said that I, too, when we first met,’’ she hesitated, and 
her cheek crimsoned, but feeling that he listened breathless 
for her words, she continued,—“ Well, only this: I felt as 
if I were wholly yours, Archer—I have felt so ever since.” 

Again she paused from native bashfulness. 

‘‘ Kiss me, Kate,—you never kissed me in your life.” 

_ Blushing and timid as the girl that she was, she stooped 
and lightly touched his lips with hers. But laughing fondly 
he threw his arm around her, exclaiming— 

“You child! you child! Married two years and cannot 
kiss me!” and pressed her to his bosom, for one instant, in 
a passionate embrace, that sent life and gladness through all 
her veins, and then he said, “I am not ill, Catherine. I 
have drawn health from your lips. See who is at the door, 
love.” 

Kate went and admitted Frank, who came in accoutred 
for traveling. 

“ Ha! where now, Fairfax ?”’ asked Clifton. 

‘For Richmond to-day.” 

‘No! You will not leave us so soon 2?” 

“ Yes,—the truth is, I must. I have an engagement to 
fulfill there on Thursday.” 

“An engagement! Of what nature, Frank, if a friend 
may ask ?” 

“ Why, the fact is,’ said Captain Fairfax, growing very 
red in the face, with the effort of pulling on a pair of gloves, 
“ T am going to be married.” 

“ Married! Oh, Frank! and not to tell us anything about 
it till now.” 

“ Hem! There was no proper opportunity till now,” 
stammered the young man. 

“Well, who is the lady, Frank 2’ asked Cliften, while 
Catherine looked and listened with interest. 

«The only friend that my dear Zuleimwe found in all her 
adversitvy—-Mrs. Knight,” said Frank, and then he addea, 
quickly, “ It was a long time before my mother’s pride could 
be reconciled to this, but Ida’s genuine goodness won her at 
ant.” 

After the first involuntary expression of surprise, Cathe 
rine ana Clifton exchanged glances, and Catherine said 

“ Well, Captain Fairfax, as soon after the marriage as 


CONCLUSION. 407 


eonvenient,— instantly after the ceremony, if you please,— 
you must bring your bride down, and pass some weeks with 
us.” 

“] thank you, Mrs. Clifton; I profoundly thank you, 
but we are going immediately to England. Ida pines to see 
her father, who is a country curate, in Devonshire. She has 
never been reconciled with him since her first unfortunate 
marriage. I have promised to take her to him, and so im- 
mediately after the ceremony, we four—that is, Ida, myself 
and our two little girls—are going to embark for Liverpool.” 

“¢ Well, altogether, this has put a surprise upon us, Frank,” 
said Major Clifton, meditatively running his fingers through 
his hair; ‘‘ but, when you return you will make us a visit. 
By the way, how long do you intend to be absent 2” 

‘Until the spring. And now I must really bid you 
good-bye, r regretting very much that I cannot ie you both 
along with me.’ 

They shook hands cordially, Clifton saymg— 

“ Well, Frank, our very best wishes attend you. May 
you have ‘much happiness He 

Captain Fairfax turned to take leave of Catherine, but 
she said that she would attend him down. She left the room 
with him. And when the door shut behind them, Clifton 
clasped his hands upon his brow and closed his eyes, as in 
deep thought or prayer. When Kate re-entered the room 
softly, he said— 

“(Some hither, Catherine !” 

And she came and knelt by his side, and he encircled her 
with his arm, and drew her face down to his tosom, and 
raising his eyes toward Heaven, said— 

“¢ A wife is from the Lord!’ Even so, oh, God! How 
shall I thank Thee? Hear me consecrate my whole future 
life to Thy service, in acknowledgment of this, Thy gift .” 





T. B. PETERSON ayo BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS, 


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sDpeo 


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——_______~+-2-0-o» -_____ 


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PUPOPA RIO 7 visi oscs vases teebeenct 75 | The Lawyer’s Secret,....cecccccee 25 
Aurora Floyd, cloth...........00. 1 00 | For Better, For Worse,.......0. 75 
@B_eoe 








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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 5 
CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. ILLUSTRATED. 


This edition is printed from large type, octavo size, each book being complete 
in one large octavo volume, bound in Morocco Cloth, with Gilt Character 
Figures on back, and Medallion on side, price $1.50 each, or $27.00 « set, 
contained in eighteen volumes, the whole containing near Six Hundred 
Illustrations, by Cruikshank, Phiz, Browne, Maclise, and other artists. 

The Pickwick Papers. By Charles Dickens. With 32 Illustrations,.$1.50 

Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens. With 37 Illustrations,.... 1 50 

David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations,...... 1 50 

Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. With 24 I]lustrations,.........06 1 50 

Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations,............ 1 50 

Dembey and Son. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations,...... 1 50 

Sketches by “Boz.” By Charles Dickens. With 20 Dlustrations,... 1 50 

Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. With 38 Illustrations..........00 1 50 

Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. With 42 Illustrations... 1 

Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens. With 34 Illustrations,... 1 

Lamplighter’s Story. By Charles Dickens. With 7 Ilustrations,... 1 

Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. With 50 Lllustrations,........ 1 

Martin Chuzzlewit. By Ciarles Dickens. With 8 Illustrations,. .... 1 

Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles Dickens. With 101 Illustrations,. 1 50 

1 
1 
1 
1 





Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens. With 12 Illustrations,..... 
Dickens’ New Stories. By Charles Dickens. With portrait of author, 
A Tale of Two Cities. By Charles Dickens. With 64 Dlustrations,, 
Charles Dickens’ American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers,......... cece covees 


BOOKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 


The following books are each issued in one larye duodecimo volume, 
bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each. 


The Initials. A Love Story. By Baroness Tautphoeus,...........c008- $1 50 
Married Beneath Him. By author of “ Lost Sir Massingberd,”...... 1 50 
Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “ Zaidee,”.......... 1 50 
Family Pride. By author of ** Pique,” “ Family Secrets,” ete......2.. 1 50 
The Autobiography of Edward Wortley Montagu, ..........cseee cesceeeee 1 50 
The Forsaken Danghter. A Companion to “ Linda,” ...........cssceee 1 50 
Love and Liberty. A Revolutionary Story. By Alexander Dumas, 1 50 
The Morrisons.. By Mrs. Margaret Hosiner,t....... .ccecccee sescevosesecess 1 50 
The Rich Husband. By author of “ George Geith,” .........cceseeeeeeee 1 50 
The Lost Beauty. By a Noted Lady of the Spanish Court,............ 1 50 
My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. A Charming Love Story,........se0.+ 1 50 
The Quaker Soldier. A Revolutionary Romance. By Judge Jones,.... 1 50 


Memoirs of Vidoeq, the French Detective. His Life and Adventures, 1 50 
The Belle of Washington. With her Portrait. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 50 
High Life in Washington. A Life Picture. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 50 
Courtship and Matrimony. By Robert Morris. With a Portrait,... 1 80 
The Jenlous Husband. By Annette Marie Maillard,.........scceeecesees 1 50 
The Conscript; or, the Days of Napoleon Ist. By Alex. Dumas,.... 1 50 
Cousin Harry. By Mrs. Grey, author of “ The Gambler’s Wife,” ete. 1 50 
Above books are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each. 


KS Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
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6 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 
WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 


The following books are euch issued in one large duodecimo volume, 
bound in moroceo cloth, price $1.50 each. 


The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Dumas, Illustrated, paper $1 00,..$1 50 
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, price $1.00; or cloth,.. 1 50 
Camille; or, the Fate of a Coquette. By Alexander Dumas,,........ 1 50 
Love and Money. By J. B. Jones, author of the “ Rival Belles,”... 1 50 





The Brother’s Secret; or, the Count De Mara. By William Godwin, 1 50 
The lsost Love. By Mrs, Oliphant, author of “ Margaret Maitland,” 1 50 
The Bohemians of London. By Edward M. Whitty,........seessseeee Ae Ges)! 
Wild Sports and Adventures in Africa. By Major W. C. “Harris, 1 50. 
The Life, Writings, and Lectures of the late “ Fanny Fern,”......... 1 50 
The Life and Lectures of Lola Montez, with her portrait,..........0:00. 1 50 
Wild Southern Scenes. By author of “ Wild Western SeenexMuae 1 50 
Currer Lyle; or, the Autobiography of an Actress, By Louise Reeder. 1 50 
The Cahin and Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph.  Illustrated,..... 1 50 
The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey,......ccccccscses covers 1 50 
Lizzie Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T. S. Arthur,..... 1 50 
Lady Maud; or, the Wonder of Kingswood Chase. By Pierce Egan, 1 50 
Wilfred Montressor ; or, High Life in New York. Illustrated.,....... 1 50 
Lorrimer Littlegood, by author “ Harry Coverdale’s Oe 1 50 
Married at Last. A Love Story. By Annie Thomas,.. . 1 50 
Shoulder Straps. By Henry Morford, author of “ D: ays “of ‘Shoddy,” 1 50 
Days of Shoddy. By Henry Morford, author of “ Shoulder Straps,” 1 50 
The Coward. By Henry Morford, author of ‘‘ Shoulder Straps,”..... 1 50 


Above books are each bound in morocco cloth, price $1.50 each. 
The Roman Traitor. By Henry William Herbert. A Roman Story, 1 75 
The Last Athenian. By Victor Rydberg. From the Swedish,....... 1 75 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BEST BOOKS, IN CLOTH. 
The following are cloth editions of Mrs. Henry Wood’s best books, and they 

are each issued in lurge octavo volumes, bound in qloth, price $1.75 each. 
Within the Maze. By Mrs: Henry Wood, author of “ East Lynne,” f 75 
The Master of Greylands. By Mrs, Henry Wo0d,......004sesscecse cosces 1 7% 


Dene Hollow. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of * Within the Maze,” 1 75 
Bessy Rane. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ The Channings,”.... 1 75 
George Canterbury’s Will. By Mrs. Wood, author “Oswald Cray,” 1 75 
The Channings. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of ‘‘ Dene Hollow,”.,. 1 75 
Roland Yorke. A Sequel to ‘‘ The Channings.” By Mrs. Wood,...... 1 75 
Skadow of Ashlydyatt. By Mrs. Wood, author of “ Bessy Rane,”.... 1 75 
Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or The Earl’s Heirs. By Mrs. Wood,... 1 75 
Verner’s Pride. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,” 1 75 
The Castle’s Heir; or Lady Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 1 75 
Oswald Cray. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Roland Yorke,”.... 1 75 
Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or Trevlyn Hold. By Mrs. Henry Wood,..... 1 75 
The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Wood, author of “ Verner’s Pride,” 1 75 
Elster’s Folly. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Castle’s Heir,”... 1 75 


St. Martin’s Eve. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of ‘ Dene Hollow,” 1 75 

Mildred Arkell. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ East Lynne,”.....1 75 

Gs Above Books will be sont, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 7 





ALEXANDER DUMAS’ ROMANCES, IN CLOTH 


The following are cloth editions of Alexander Dumas’ works, and they are 
each issued in large octavo volumes, bound in cloth, price $1.50 each. 


The Three Guardsmen ; or, The Three Mousquetaires. By A. Dumas,31 50 
Twenty Years After; or the “ Second Series of Three Guardsmen,”... 1 50 
Bragelonne; Son of Athos; or “ Third Series of Three Guardsmen,” 1 50 
The Iron Mask; or the “ Fourth Series of The Three Guardsmen,”.... 1 50 
Louise La Valliere. The Sequel to “The lron Mask.” Being the 

“Fifth Book and End of the Three Guardsmen Series,” ...ccsesseseeee 1 
The Memoirs of a Physician; or, Joseph Balsamo. TIllustrated,...... 1 50 
Queen’s Necklace; or “ Second Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 50 
Six Years Later; or the “ Third Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 50 
Countess of Charny; or “ Fourth Series of Memoirsof a Physician,” 1 50 
Andree De Taverney; or “ Fifth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 50 
The Chevalier. Zhe Sequel to ‘Andree De Taverney.” Being the 

“Sixth Book and End of the Memoirs of a Physician Series,” ....+.. 1 
The Adventures of a Marquis. By Alexander Dumas,. ..,.......0s0000. 1 50 
The Forty-Five Guardsmen. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated,... 1 50 
Diana of Meridor, or Lady of Monsoreau. By Alexander Dumas,... 1 50 

1 

1 

1 

1 


50 


50 


The Iron Hand. By Alex. Dumas, author “Count of Monte-Cristo,” 1 50 
Camille; or the Fate of a Coquette. (La Dame aux Camelias,)...... 1 50 
The Conscript. A novel of the Days of Napoleon the First,......... 4-20 
Love and Liberty. A novel of the French Revolution of 1792-1793, 1 50 


THE ‘COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO SERIES,” IN CLOTH. 


The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. Jilustrated,... 1 50 
Edmond Dantes. The Sequel to the “ Count of Monte-Cristo,”....... 1 25 
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. The Companion to “ Monte-Cristo,” 1 50 
The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Continuation of “Count of Monte-Cristo,” 1 25 
The Son of Monte-Cristo. ‘The Sequel to “ Wife of Munte-Cristo,” 1 25 


T. 8. ARTHUR’S GREAT TEMPERANCE BOOKS, 


Six Nights with the Washingtonians, Illustrated. T. S. Arthur’s 
Great Temperance Stories. Large Subscription Edition, cloth, gilt, 
$3.50; Red Roan, $4.50; Full Turkey Antique, Full Gilt,.......... 6 00 

The Latimer Family ; or the Bottle and Pledge. By T. 8. Arthur, cloth, 1 00 


MODEL SPEAKERS AND READERS. 


Comstock’s Elocution and Model Speaker. Intended for the use of 
Schools, Colleges, and for private Study, for the Promotion of 
Itealth, Cure of Stammering, and Defective Articulation. By 
Andrew Comstock and Philip Lawrence. With 236 Illustrations,, 2 00 

The Lawrence Speaker. A Selection of Literary Gems in Poetry and 
Prose, designed for the use of Colleges, Schools, Seminaries, Literary 
Societies. By Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. 600 pages.. 2 00 

Comstock’s Colored Chart. Being a perfect Alphabet of the English 
Language, Graphic and Typic, with exercises in Pitch, Force and 
Gesture, and Sixty-Eight colored figures, representing the various 
postures and different attitudes to be used in declamation. Ona large 
Roller. Every School should have a copy Of it..ssesssseesesseereneerees 5 00 


—»_eo 


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by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 








8 T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


_—_——— 


WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 


The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in 
cloth, at $1.50 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.00 each. 


The Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations,........ $1 50 
Mysteries of Paris; and its Sequel, Gerolstein. By Eugene Sue,.... 1 50 
Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations,..... 1 50 


Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. With Illustrations,.... 1 50 


The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in 
cloth, at $2.00 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


Washington and His Generals. By George Lippard,.. ......csseesesees 2 00 
The Quaker City; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. By George Lippard, 2 00 
Blanche of Brandywine. By George Lippard,........0.ssssce cesses eevee . 2 00 


Paul Ardenheim; the Monk of Wissahickon. By George Lippard,. 2 06 
The Mysteries of "Florence. By Geo. Lippard, author “ Quaker Ons ” 2 00 
The Pictorial Tower of London. By W. Harrison Ainswortb,. . 2 50 


The following are each issued in one large octavo volume, bound in cloth, Be $1.50 
each, or a cheap edition is tssued in paper cover, at 75 cents each. 


Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever,...... Cloth, $1 50 
Harry Lorrequer. With his Confessions. By Charles Lever,...Cloth, 1 50 
Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever,............0++ Cloth, 1 50 
Davenport Dunn. A Manof Our Day. By Charles Lever,...Cloth, 1 50 
Tom Burke of Ours. By Charles Lever,.........ccecsscsces coececees Cloth, 1 50 
The Knight of Gwynne. By Charles Lever,............0.secessess Cloth, 1 50 
Arthur O'Leary... By Charles Levery..iccs cesscecetncescnsacsusuanuie Cloth, 1 50 
Con Cregan. By Charles Leverjcc.sisspsicesstacsscnpenaes 0Xcasaeenne Cloth, 1 50 
Horace ‘Templeton. By Charles Lever... .c:e<tsscssesouneionn »eeesCloth, 1 50 
Kate O'Donoghue. By Charles Lever,..........0..ssesesseseeee.ssCloth, 1 50 
Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist. By Harry Cockton,........ Cloth, 1 50 


HUMGROUS ILLUSTRATED BOOKS. 
Each one is full of Illustrations, by Felix O. C. Darley, and bound in Cloth. 
Major Jones’ Courtship and Travels. In one vol., 29 Illustrations,.$1 75 


Major Jones’ Scenes in Georgia. With 16 Illustrations,...........ss000« 1 50 
Swamp Doctor’s Adventures in the South-West. 14 Lllustrations,... 1 50 
Col. Thorpe’s Scenes in Arkansaw. With 16 Illustrations,............. 1 50 
High Life in New York, by Jonathan Slick. With Illustrations,.... 1 50 
Piney Wood’s Tavern; or, Sam Slick in Texas. L[llustrated,.......... 1 50 
Humors of Falconbridge. By J. F. Kelley. With Illustrations,... 1 50 
Simon Suggs’ Adventures and Travels. With 17 Illustrations,...... 1 50 
The Big Bear’s Adventures and Travels. With 18 Iilustrations,...... 1 50 
Judge Haliburton’s Yankee Stories. Illustrated,. ocendeavnaceecardn eae 
Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Illustrated,.. ovaase nea 1 50 


Lorrimer Littlegood. Illustrated. By author of “ Frank Fairlegh,” 1 50 
Neal’s Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. 21 Illustrations,... 2 50 
Major Jones’s Courtship. 21 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,..... 1 00 
Major Jones’s Travels. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth,...... 1 60 
Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes. 12 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, 1 00 . 
Rancy Cottem’s Courtship. 8 Illustrations. Paper, 50 cents, cloth, 1 00 





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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS, 





STANDARD NOVELS, BY BEST WRITERS. 


Consuelo. By George Sand. One volume, 12mo., bound in cloth,...$1 


The Countess of Rudolstadt. Sequel to “Consuelo.” 12mo., cloth,.. 
Indiana. A Novel. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” eloth, 
Jealousy; or, Teverino. By Georze Sand, author “ Consuelo,” cloth, 
Fanchon, the Cricket; or, La Petite Fadette. By George Sand, cloth, 
The Dead Sceret. By Wilkie Collins, author of “ Basil,” eloth,.. 
The Crossed Path; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins, cloth, pce taecaseatese 
John Jasper’s Secret. Sequel to “Mystery of Edwin Drood,” cloth,... 
The Life of Charles Dickens. By Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, cloth, 
The Lamplighter’s Story, with others. By Charles Dickens, cloth,... 
The Old Stone Mansion. By author of “ Heiress of Sweetwater,” cloth, 
Lord Montagu’s Page. By G.P. R. James, author ‘ Cavalier,’ cloth, 
The Earl of Mayfield. By Thomas P. May, cioth, black and gold,.. 
Myrtle Lawn. A Novel. By Robert E. Ballard, cloth, said pesaentdeasea 
Corinne; or, [taly. A Love Story. By Madame de Stael, cloth,.. 
Cyrilla; or Mysterious Engagement. By author of “ Initials,” cloth, 
Treason at Home. A Novel. By Mrs, Greenough, cloth,............6. 
Letters from Europe. By Colonel John W. Forney. Bound in cloth, 
Frank Fairlegh. By author of “ Lewis Arundel,” cloth,...... Manes eidnes 
Lewis Arundel. By author of “ Frank Fairlegh,” cloth,.............06 
Harry Racket Scapegrace. By the author of “ Frank  sidtbaaacepet 
Tom Racquet. By author of “ Frank Fairlegh,” cloth,.. ; 
Sam Slick, the Clockmaker. By Judge Haliburton. Tilustrated,. 
Modern Chivalry. By Judge Breckenridge. Two vols., each......., 
La Gaviota; the Sea-Gull. By Fernan Caballero, cloth,.............0 
Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Bound in cloth,. ............ 
The Laws and Practice of the Game of Euchre and Draw Poker, 
as adopted by the Euchre Club of Washington, D.C. Cloth,...... 
Youth of Shakspeare, author ‘“Shakspeare and His Friends,” cloth, 
Shakspeare and His Friends, author “ Youth of Shakspeare,” cloth, 
The Seeret Passion} author of “ Shukspeare and His Friends,” cloth, 
Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican, illus., cloth, 
Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. One 8vo. volume, cloth,......... 
Life of Sir Walter Scott. By John G. Lockhart. - With Portrait,..... 
Tales of a Grandfather & History of Scotland, by Walter Seott, cloth, 
Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, by Sir Walter Scott. One 8vo. vol., cloth, 
Miss Pardoe’s Choice Novels. In one large octavo volume, cloth,... 
Life, Speeches and Martyrdom of Abraham Lincoln.  Illus., eloth,.. 
Rome and the Papacy. A History of the Men, Manners and Tempo- 
ral Government of Rome in the Nineteenth Century, cloth,.......... 
The French, German, Spanish, Latin and Italian Languages Without 
a Master. Whereby any one of these Languages can be learned 
without a Teacher. By A. H. Monteith. One volume, cloth,..... 
Liebig’s Complete Works on Chemistry. By Justus Liebig, cloth,.. 
Life and Adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, cloth,....... 
Tan-go-ru-a. An Historical Drama, in Prose. By Mr. Moorhead,.... 
The Impeachment Trial of President Andrew Johnson. Cloth,....... 
Trial of the Assassins for the Murder of Abraham Lincoln. Cloth,... 


= saDeo 








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BGS Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 


by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


12 T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


ed 





# Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News 
Agents, and ali othors in want of good and fast-selling 
books, which wil be supplied at very Low Rates. 9 





EMILE ZOLA’S NEW REALISTIC BOOKS. 


Nana! SequeltoL’Assommoir. By Emile Zola. Nana! Price 75 cents 
in paper cover, or $1.00 in morocco cloth, black and gold. Nana! 

L’Assommoir; or, Nana’s Mother. By Emile Zola, The Greatest Novel 
ever printed. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

The Joys of Life, By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ Pot-Bouille,” ete. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold. 

The Ladies’ Paradise; or, The Bonheurdes Dames. By Emile Zola, author 
of “ Nana.” Paper cover, 75 cents; or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

Her Two Husbands; and Other Novelettes. By Emile Zolu. Price 75 
cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morucco cloth, black and gold. 

Pot-Bouille. By Hmile Zola, author of “Nana.” “ Pot-Bouille.” Price 
75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold. 

Nana’s Daughter. A Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola’s Great 
Realistic Novel of “Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in clorh. 

The Mysteries of the Court of Louis Napoleon. Ly Emile Zola. Price 
75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

The Girl in Scarlet; or, the Loves of Silvére and Miette. By Emile Zola. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

Albine; or, The Abbé’s Temptation. (La Faute De L’Abbe Mouret.) By 
Emile Zola. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

La Belle Lisa; or, The Paris Market Girls. By Emile Zola. Price 7a 
cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold. 

Héléne, a Love Episode; or, Une Page D’Amour. By Emile Zola, 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

A Mad Love; or The Abbé and His Court. By Emile Zola. Price 75 
cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

Magdalen Ferat. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” and “ L’Assom- 
moir.” Paper cover, 75 cents, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

Claude’s Confession. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” 
“ Helene,” ete. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

The Mysteries of Marseilles. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.” Priee 
50 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth, black and gold. 

In the Whirlpool. (La Curee.) By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” 
Paper cover, 75 cents; or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

Thérése Raquin. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.” Price 75 cents in 
paper cover, or $1.00 in morocco cloth, black and gold. 


ADOLPHE BELOT’S INGENIOUS NOVELS. 
The Black Venus. By Adolphe Belot. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.00, 
La Grande Florine. By Adolphe Belot. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
The Stranglers of Paris. By Adolphe Belot, Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 





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T. B, PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 13 





PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES. 


The following books are printed on tinted paper, and are issued tn uniform 
style, in square 12mo. form. Price 50 Cents in Paper, or $1.00 in Cloth. 
Helen’s Babies. Budge and Toddie. By John Habberton. With an 

Illustrated Cover, and Portraits of “ Budge” and “ Toddie,” and others. 
Mrs. Mayburn’s Twins. With the Mother’s Trials in the Morning, After- 
noon and Evening. By John Habberton, author of “ Helen’s Babies.” 
Bertha’s Baby. Equal to *‘ Helen’s Babies.” Bertha’s Baby. With an 

Illustrated Cover, and a Portrait of “ Bertha’s Baby” on it. 

The Annals of a Baby. Baby’s First Gifts. Naming the Baby. The 
Baby’s Party. Aunt Hannah, ete. By Mrs. Sarah Bridges Stebbins. 
Bessie’s Six Lovers. With Her Reflections, Resolves, Coronation, and 
Declaration of Love. A Charming Love Story. By Henry Peterson. 

Two Kisses. A Bright and Snappy Love Story. By Hawley Smart. 
Her Second Love. <A Thrilling Life-like and Captivating Love Story. 

A Parisian Romance. Octave feuillet’s New Book, just dramatized. 
Fanchon, the Cricket; or, La Petite Fadette. By George Sand. 

Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is it Love? or, False Pride. 

The Matchmaker. By Beatrice Reynolds, A Charming Love Story. 
The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray. 
The Amours of Philippe; or, Philippe’s Love Affairs, by Octave Feuillet. 
Sybil Brotherton. A Novel. By Mrs. Emma D. KE, N, Southworth. 
‘Rancy Cottem’s Courtship. By author of ‘‘ Majo Jones’s Courtship.” 
Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican. Illustrated. 

A Woman’s Mistake; or, Jacques de Trévannes. A Charming Love Story. 
The Days of Madame Pompadour. A Romance of the Reign of Louis XV. 
The Little Countess, By Octave Feuillet, author of “ Count De Camors.” 
The Red Hill Tragedy. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 

The American L’Assommoir. # parody on Zola’s “ L’Assommoir.” 

Hyde Park Sketches. A very humorous and entertaining work. 

Miss Margery’s Roses. A Charming Love Story. By Robert C. Meyers. 
Madeleine. A Charming Love Story. Jules Sandeau’s Prize Novel. 
Carmen. By Prosper Merimee. Book the Opera was dramatized from. 
That Girl of Mine. By the author of “ That Lover of Mine.” 

That Lover of Mine. By the author of “ That Girl of Mine.” 


PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES, 


The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Continuation of ‘“ Count of Monte-Cristo.” 
The Son of Monte-Cristo. The Sequel to “The Wife of Monte-Cristo.” 
Married Above Her. A Society Romance. By a Lady of New York. 
The Man from Texas. A Powerful Western Romance, full of adventure. 
Erring, Yet Noble. A Book of Women and for Women, By I. G. Reed. 
The Fair Enchantress; or, How She Won Men’s Hearts. By Miss Keller. 
Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or $1.25 each in cloth. 


Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Paper, 75 cts.; cloth, $1.50. 
Those Pretty St. George Girls. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, gilt, $1.00. 
The Prairie Flower, and Leni-Leoti. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00. 
Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, gilt, $1.25. 
Vidoeq! The French Detective. Illustrated. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00. 


~~» e & >+—_____—_—_—_ 


All Books published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa., 
will be sent to any one, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price. 





14 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS, 





PETERSONS’ SQUARE 12mo. SERIES. 


Major Jones’s Courtship. 21 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
Major Jones's Georgia Scenes. 12 Illustrations, Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
Major Jones’s Travels. 8 Illustrations, Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
Simon Suggs’ Adventures. 10 Lilustrations. Paper, 75 cts., cloth, $1.00. 
Louisiana Swamp Doctor. 6 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00. 
The Initials. ‘A. Z.’ By Baroness Tautphceus. Paper, 75 ets., cloth, $1.25. 
Indiana! A Love Story. By George Sand. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
Monsieur, Madame, and the: Baby. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
L’Evangéliste. By Alphonse Daudet. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25. 
The Duchesse Undine. By H. Penn Diltz. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25. 
The Hidden Record, By E. W. Blaisdell. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25, 
Consuelo. By George Sand. Paper cover, Price 75 cents; cloth, $1.00, 
Countess of Rudolstadt. Sequel to Consuelo. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
The Changed Brides. By Mrs, E. D. MW. N. Southworth. Paper, 75 cts. 
The Bride’s Fate. By Mrs. K. D. E. N, Southworth. Paper, 75 cents, 
Self-Raised; or, From the Depths. By Mrs. Southworth. Piaae 75 cts. 
Ishmael; or, in the Depths. By Mrs. Southworth. Paper, 75 cents, 
The Fatal Marriage. By Mrs. BE. D. E. N. Southworth. Paper, 75 cents, 
The Bridal Eve; or, Rese Eimer. By Mrs. Southworth. Paper, 75 cents, 
A Russian Princess, By Emmanuel Gonzales. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
A Woman's Perils; or, Driven from Home. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25, 
A Fascinating Woman, By Edmond Adam. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25, 
La Faustin. By Edmond de Goncourt. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25. 
Monsieur Le Ministre. By Jules Claretie. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25, 
Winning the Battle; or, One Girlin 10,000, Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25. 
A Child of Israel. By Edouard Cadol. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
The Exiles. ‘Che Russian ‘ Robinson Crusoe.’ Paper, .5 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
My Hero. A Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester. Paper, 75 ets., cloth, $1.00. 
Paul Hart; or, The Love of His Life. Pauper cover, 75 cents. cloth, $1.25, 
Mildred’s Cadet; or, Hearts and Bell-Buttons. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
Bellah. A Love Story. By Octave Feuillet. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00. 
Sahine’s Falsehood. A Love Story. Paper, price 75 cents, cloth, $1.00. 
Linda; or, The Young Pilvtof the Belle Creole. Paper, 75 ets., cloth, $1.25. 
The Woman in Black. Illustrated Cover. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
Madame Bovary. By Gustave Flaubert. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00, 
The Count de Camors. By Octave Feuillet. Paper, 75 cents, elotn, $1.25, 
How She Won Him! A Love Story. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25, 
Angéle’s Fortune. By André Theuriet. Paper cover, 75 cents, cloth, $1.25, 
St. Maur; or, An Earl's Wooing. Paper cover, price 75 cents, cloth, $1.29. ° 
The Prince of Breffuy. By Thomas P. May. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.50. 
The Earlof Mayfield. By Thomas 1. May. Paper, 75 cents, cloth, $1.00. 


THE “COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO SERIES.” 
The Count of Monte-Cristo. Tlustrated. Paper cover, $1.00, cloth, $1.50. 
Edmond Dantes. Sequel to “ Monte-Cristo.” Paper, 75 ets., cloth, $1.25. 
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, $1.00, morocco cloth, $1.50. 
The Wife of Monte-Cristo. Peper cover, 75 cents, morvcco cloth, $1.25, 
The Son of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, 75 cents, morocco cloth, $1.25. 


Se ee <P S 





All Books published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa., 
will be sent to any one, postage paid, 0a receiptof Retail Price. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 15 





MRS. F. H. BURNETT'S NOVELLETTES, 


- Kathleen. A Love Story. By author of “That Lass o’ Lowries.” 
Theo. A Love Story. By author of “ Kathleen,” “ Miss Crespigny,” ete. 
Lindsay’s Luck. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. 
Pretty Polly Pemberton. By author of “ Kathleen,” “ Theo,” ete. 
A Quiet Life. By Mrs. Burnett, author of ‘That Lass 0’ Lowries.” 
Miss Crespigny. A Charming Love Story. By author of “Kathleen.” 
Jarl’s Daughter and Other Novelettes. By Mrs. Burnett. 

Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each. 


HENRY GREVILLE’S CHARMING NOVELS. 


Dosia. <A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “ Markof,.” 

Marrying Off a Daughter. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville. 

Sylvie’s Betrothed. A Charming Novel. By Henry Gréville. 

Philoméne’s Marriages. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville. 

Guy’s Marriage; also Pretty Little Countess Zina. By Henry Gréville, 
Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.25 each. 


The Trials of Raissa. By Henry Gréville, author of “ Dosia.” 
The Princess Oghérof. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville. 
Above are in paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each, 


Mam’zelle Eugenie. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Gréville. 

Savéli’s Expiation. A Powerful Novel. By Henry Gréville. 

. Tania’s Peril. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Gréville. 

Sonia. A Love Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “ Dosia.” 

Lucie Rodey. A Charming Society Novel. By Henry Gréville. 

Bonne-Marie. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry Gréville, 

Xenie’s Inheritance. A Tale of Russian Life. By Henry Gréville. 

Dournof. A Russian Story. By Henry Gréville, author of “ Dosia,” 

Gabrielle; or, The House of Mauréze. By Henry Gréville. 

A Friend; or, “L’Ami.” By Henry Gréville, author of ‘ Dosia.” 
Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each. 


Markof, the Russian Violinist. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.50. 


BOOKS BY AUTHOR OF ‘A HEART TWICE WON,’ 


A. Heart Twice Won; or, Second Love. A Love Story. By Mrs. Eliza 
beth Van Loon. Morocco cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50. 

Under the Willows; or, The Three Countesses. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van 
Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, and gold. Price $1.50. 

The Shadow of Hampton Mead. <A Charming Story. By Mrs. Elizabeth 
Van Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth. Price $1.50. 

The Mystery of Allanwold. A Thrilling Novel. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van 
Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, and gold. Price $1.50. 

The Last Athenian. By Victor Rydberg. Translated from the Swedish. 
Large 12mo. volume, near 600 pages, cloth, black and gold, price $1.75. 

The Roman Traitor; or, The Days of Cicero, Cato,and Cataline. <A Tale 
of the Republic. By Henry William Herbert. Morocco cloth, price $1.75. 

Franeatelli’s Modern Cook Book. The New Edition. With the most 
approved methods of French, English, German, and Italian Cookery. 
With 62 Illustrations. 600 pages, morocco cloth, price $5.00. 

St 

All Books publish®@i by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa., 

Will be sent to any one, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price. 


16 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 
PETERSONS’ “DOLLAR SERIES.” 


Petersons’ “Dollar Sertes’’ of Good Novels are the cheapest books at One Dollar each 
ever published. They are all issued in uniform style, in 12mo. form, and are 
bound in red, blue and tan vellum, with gold and black sides and back, and are sold 
at the low price of One Dollar each, while they are as large as any books published 
at $1.75 and $2.00 each. The following have already been issued in this series: 

A Woman’s Thoughts About Women. By Miss Mulock. 

Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is It Love, or, False Pride? 

The Story of ‘“ Elizabeth.” By Miss Thackeray. 

Flirtations in Fashionable Life. By Catharine Sinclair. 

Lady Edith; or, Alton Towers. A very charming and fascinating work, 

Myrtle Lawn; or, True Love Never Did Run Smooth. A Love Story. 

The Matchmaker. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. 

Rose Douglas, the Bonnie Scotch Lass. A Companion to “ Family Pride.” 

The Earl’s Secret. A Charming Love Story. By Miss Pardoe. 

Family Secrets. A Companion to “ Family Pride,” and very fascinating. 

The Macdermots of Ballycloran. An Exciting Novel, by A. Trollope. 

The Family Save-All. With Economical Receipts for the Household. 

Self-Sacrifice. A Charming Work. By author of “‘ Margaret Maitland,” 

The Pride of Life. A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott, 

The Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. Author “ Wild Western Scenes,” 

The Clyffards of Clyffe. By James Payn, author “ Lost Sir Massingberd.” 

The Orphan’s Trials; or, Alone in a Great City. By Emerson Bennett. 

The Heiress of Sweetwater. A Love Story, abounding with exciting scenes, 

The Refugee. A delightful book, full of food for laughter, and information. 

Lost Sir Massingberd. A Love Story. By author of “ Clyffards of Clyffe.” 

Cora Belmont; or, The Sincere Lover. A True Story of the Heart. 

The Lover’s Trials; or, The Days Before the Revolution. By Mrs. Denison. 

My Son’s Wife. A strong, bright, interesting and charming Novel. 

Aunt Patty’s Serap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of “ Rena,” 

Saratoga! and the Famous Springs. An Indian Tale of Frontier Life, 

Country Quarters. A Charming Love Story. By Countess of Blessington. 

Self-Love. A Book for Young Ladies, with prospects in Life contrasted. 

The Devoted Bride; or, Faith and Fidelity. A Love Story. 

Colley Cibber’s Life of Edwin Forrest, with Reminiscences of the Actor. 

Outofthe Depths. The Story of a Woman’s Life, anda Woman’s Book. 

The Queen’s Favorite; or, The Price of a Crown. A Romance of Don Juan. 

Six Nights with the Washingtonians. Byd.S.Arthur. Illustrated. 

The Coquette; or, the Life and Letters of the beautiful Eliza Wharton. 

Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople. By Emmeline Lott. 

The Old Patroon; or, The Great Van Broek Property, by J. A. Maitland. 

Nana, By Emile Zola. Gambling Exposed. By J. H. Green. 

L’Assommoir. By Emile Zola, Woodburn Grange. By W. Howitt, 

Dream Numbers. By Trollope. The Cavalier. By G. P. R. James. 


A Lonely Life. Across the Atlantic. 

The Beautiful Widow. Shoulder-Straps. By H. Morford. 
Loveand Duty. By Mrs. Hubback. The Brothers’ Secret. 

The Heiress in the Family. The Recetor’s Wife. 
Woman’s Wrong. A Woman’s Book. The Man of the World. 


ns 
Z= Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


e 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 21 





HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. 
With Iluminated Covers, and beautifully Illustrated by Felix O. C. Darley, 


Major Jones’s Courtship. With Illustrations by Darley,............066 aed gt. 
Major Jones’s Travels. Full of Illustrations .............00sscscsscess ie 75 
Major Jones’s Georgia Scenes, with Illustrations by Darley,........... 75 
Raney Cottem’s Courtship, by author of Major Jones’s Courtship,.... 50 
The Adventures of Captain Simon Suggs. Illustrated, ......... ....006 + ‘od 
Major Jones’s Chronicles of Pineville. Fifadtrnted 5) coer ccasaboenccove Ay fo 
Polly Peablossom’s Wedding. With Illustrations, ...........sc00cseseeee oe he Be 
Widow Rugby’s Husband. Full of Dlustrations,..............004 ceeeeees ee te 
The Big Bear of Arkansas. Illustrated by Darley,............csececeeees 75 
Western Scenes; or, Life on the Prairie. Illustrated,.............-.e006 ee 
Streaks of Squatter Life and Far West Scenes. Illustrated,............ 75 
Pickings from the New Orleans Picayune. [Illustrated,.............000. 75 
Stray Subjects Arrested and Bound Over. Illustrated, ......... esses s 75 
The Louisiana Swamp Doctor. Full of Illustrations,............000 seeees 75 
Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. Illustrated,..............e00008 © 75 
Peter Faber’s Misfortunes. By Joseph C. Neal. Illustrated,........ 475 
Peter Ploddy and other Oddities. By Joseph C. Neal,.........s00ss00 rainy fo 
Yankee Among the Mermaids. By William E. Burton........ becspeses on te 
The Drama in Pokerville. By J. M. Field. Illustrated,.............. Peet ¢ 
New Orleans Sketch Book. With Illustrations by Darley,............ ee 
The Deer Stalkers. By Frank Forester. Illustrated, ...............00+ Sao fi 
The Quorndon Hounds. By Frank Forester.  Illustrated,............. St hae 
My Shooting Box. By Frank Forester. Illustrated, ..............000 AS ey # 
The Warwick Woodlands. By Frank Forester. Illustrated,.......... 75 
Adventures of Captain Farrago. By H. H. Brackenridge,.........++ 2 95 
Adventures of Major O'Regan. By H. H. Brackenridge, ....... jeeiee ude 
Sol Smith’s Theatrical Apprenticeship. Illustrated,............seeeeeee ~ 05 
Sol Smith’s Theatrical Journey-Work. ITllustrated,.........0...s000seeeee 75 
Quarter Race in Kentucky. With Illustrations by Darley,........... ~ 75 
The Mysteries of the Backwoods. By T. B. Thorpe,.......... ei eiaaenl e045 
Percival Mayberry’s Adventures. By J. H. Ingraham,.........+ epasrens,) 2a 0 
Sam Slick’s Yankee Yarns and Yankee Letters,..........ssscsesecees coves ect 
Adventures of Fudge Fumble; or, Love Scrapes of bis Pate, Fae roncie: 75 
Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz,.........00s000s yume ke. 
Following the Drum. By Mrs. Gen. Viele,..........s.c++ serenesee cosseees sree 
The American Joe Miller. ‘ With 100 Engravings,......c00sssseees Cikeses 50 


SAMUEL WARREN’S BEST BOOKS. 
Ten Thousand a Year, paper, $l 00 | The Diary of a Medical Stu- 


Ten Thousand a Year, cloth,.. 1 50 dont, .ictciae re Press eee ee eee o 
G. P. R. JAMES’S FASCINATIN G BOOKS. 

Lord Montague’s Page. Bound in morocco cloth,......s0.seseeeses seeees 4p 50 

The Cavalier. By the author of “ Lord Montague’s Page,” cloth,.... 1 50 

The Man in Black,...... ees decees LAE D POATEOIE LIS yacyuiheasanpadecars votes ase fe 

Mary of Burgundy, ...... eis -. 751 Eva St. Clair, ‘ieutaes ep emuGreusssoetLE pO 





Beas Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


MRS. EMMA D. EN. SOUTHWORTHS WORKS. 


eC St ial BP. 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, have just pub- 
lished un entire new, comp ele and unijorm edition of all of the cele- 
brated works written by Mrs. Emma 2. ‘E. N. Southworth, This edition 
ts in duoleciino form, ts printed on the finest white paper, is complete 
in forty-three volumes, and each volume is bound in morocco cloth, with 
au full gilt back, and is sold ut the low price of $1.50 u vorwme, or $64.50 
for a full and complete set. Livery Fumily, and every Library in this 
Counl™ 4 should huve in it a complete set of this new edition of the 
works of Mrs. Southworth, The following are the names of the volumes: 


THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, the Fall of the House of Flint. 
SELF-RAISED ; or, From the Depths. Sequei to ‘‘ Ishmael.” 
ISHMAEL; or. IN THE DEPTHS. (Being ‘* Self-Made.’’) 
THE ‘‘MOTHER-IN-LAW ;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 
THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 
VICTO3’S TRIUMPH. Seque! to ‘‘A Beautiful Fiend.” 
A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; cr, THRCUCH THE FIRE. 
LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 
FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, TRE MAN-HKATER. 
HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”’ 
THE CHANGED BRIDES ; or, Winning Her Way. 
THE BRIDE S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
CRU=L AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 
TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to ‘‘ Cruel as the Grave.” 
THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse, 
THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 
THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; cr, The Brothers. 
A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to ‘‘Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM: or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS, 
THE MAIDEN WIDUW. Sequel to “* Family Doom.” 
THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Eride of an Evening. 
THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 
THE THREE BEAUTIES ; or, SHANNONDALE. 
ALLWORTH A3BEY; or, EUDORA. 
FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE, 
INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. 
VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 
THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 
FHE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle, 
THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS : or, HICKORY HALL. 
THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 
THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 
THE WIDOW’S SON: or, LEFT ALONE. 
THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 
THE DESERTED WIFE. THE WIFE’S VICTORY. 
THE LOST HEIRESS. THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. LOVE’S LABOR WON. ; 
THE SPECTRE LOVER. CURSE OF CLIFTON, 
THE FATAL SECRET. RETRIBUTION. 


##- Above books are for sale by all Bookselters, or copies will be sené 
te any one, at once, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers, 
306 CumstNutT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, Pa, 











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